


And Am I Born to Die

by grizzly_bear_bane



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Amputation, British Military, Coming of Age, Domestic, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Is this considered fluff?, M/M, Or angst, Recovery, References to PTSD, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is the prissy son of a rich family who cut him off when he fell in love with Eames, a British soldier, while on a study abroad program to England. </p>
<p>Eames loses his legs and an arm in Iraq. His family is done hoping that Arthur will show up any time soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It took a while to get back to this, but inspiration called and I had to answer. Glad I did! X3
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Song by Lana Del Rey

 

_Will you still love me_   
_when I'm no longer young and beautiful?_

_Will you still love me_   
_when I got nothing but my aching soul?_   
_I know you will, I know you will, I know that you will.*_

 

++

+

Eames was a simple man. He’d always had a dream to do something, to become a part of something, so much larger than himself. Arthur hadn’t understood. Eames loved the boy, but sometimes Arthur could be incredibly selfish.

They’d even broken up when Eames had reenlisted. Arthur’s reason being that he wouldn’t force Eames against doing what he felt he needed to do, but he also wasn’t cut out for burying a boyfriend at twenty-three. The break up didn’t last long. The first time Eames got to call Arthur his little brat picked up and refused to put the phone down, in a fit of tears.

Arthur wanted him to be a cop, or a firefighter even, or to just keep his plumbing job at the university until Arthur could bribe him into moving stateside. Anything to keep him out of a warzone.

Well, lying in this hospital bed in Germany, and staring down at the point where the white sheets over his lower half dropped down in a premature slope where his legs should have been…

Maybe Arthur had been right all along.

+

It would be nice to say that their affair had started out easy, but it had been anything but. The memories were always so vivid in his mind, like he’d only just met Arthur yesterday.

He had been a little afraid that his poor car wouldn’t hold up to Arthur’s… _enthusiasm_ in the parking lot near Castle Mill stream.

Eames hadn't wanted to stop Arthur from bouncing on his cock so hard, didn’t want to admit that he needed a break, even though his ribs screamed at him to get the skinny boy off. He couldn’t formulate the words correctly. Arthur was…

Arthur had thrown his head back, his gold Invicta glittering in the sunlight when he'd reached for the door handle behind him for better leverage.

“Eames.” Arthur had sighed his name so perfectly. And he had quickly developed a love for rubbing the dusting of hair on Eames’ chest—and scratching him to within an inch of his life at a moment's notice when he angled for that spot deep within.

His shirt had probably cost more than this car had cost Eames and still its buttons were pulled loose or broken off when he’d let Eames strip him enough to fuck him. Claim the prize that he’d rightfully won—that was what Arthur had told him when he'd climbed into the backseat, not caring if Eames’ bloody nose stained his collar or not.

But he hadn’t rightfully won, he’d cheated. He’d cheated Robert Fischer out of the best boy he’d ever had. Robert’s family was rich, Arthur’s was too. Eames had his muscles and his backfiring car. He didn’t even go to the university where Robert and Arthur were finishing their study abroad program. He’d only been repairing a sink in the washroom in one of the university’s various buildings when he’d stopped to take a piss at a urinal and Arthur’d walked in, seeing the size of what Eames had in his hand.

Eames _could_ have felt bad for Robert, if he wasn’t an asshole. And in the end, it really hadn’t mattered how much money Eames’ family did or didn’t have. He’d kicked the shit out of Fischer’s lackeys with minimal battle wounds—though his ribs and jaw would disagree— _and_ he’d kicked Fischer’s ass too, for good measure. Now here he was, his prize in his lap bouncing like a porn star with Eames’ dog tags between his teeth.

Eames _should_ had felt sorry for Robert, who had probably had to check himself into a hospital for his own injuries, but Arthur was coming, squeezing his cock. He'd tossed the rubber out the window so he could finish Eames off in his mouth. He'd sat back, frowning over the destruction of his clothes, but when he glanced up at Eames through his lashes, his smile was utterly devious.

Arthur was…he was worth it.

+

Eames almost fell out of his bed this morning.

He’d woken up, his mind still half in a dream, chasing Arthur around their bedroom. Except when his muggy brain encouraged his body to get up there were no feet to plant on the floor. If his mother hadn’t been there to catch him in time…

His ‘mistake’ was blamed on a too-heavy dosage of sedatives, or a clumsy nurse who forgot to keep up his bed railings, or something else the doctor said, perhaps. Eames didn’t care. Excuses didn’t stop him from wanting to tear out all the tubes in his arms and strangle himself with them.

For the past several weeks, he’d spent most of his brief hours awake staring down at his lower half under the blankets, and listening to people tell him how ‘lucky’ he was.

Eames hated everything to do with this hospital. So many broken bodies, destroyed families, lost parents and lost children, lost comrades, lost limbs.

Baghdad was a beautiful city in a beautiful country torn to shreds by war. Maybe someday Eames would be able to see the humor of getting blown up by an IED and losing half of his team two weeks before they were slated to head back home. That's what his doctor seemed to think, at least. Of course, his doctor wasn't in Eames' position, was he?

He could still see it happen, feel it, every time his closed his eyes to sleep.

He was drowsy but not enough to miss that his mother and father were in the room with his older brother.

“I don’t know,” his brother James whispered. “You said you called him, but he didn’t pick up?” His mother must have nodded when James snorted, disgusted. “Why am I not surprised? Don’t call him back. Georgie’d do better without that little snob.”

Arthur.

Hating Arthur wasn’t a new thing with his family, and Arthur sadly did nothing do persuade them otherwise. They’d sent out invitations for him to join Eames for their Christmas dinners, for birthdays, for everything, and had even made the expensive trip to Paris to visit him when he himself had been in the hospital from a car accident.

They didn’t understand him, but Eames did. Arthur came from a family too cold for polar bears to handle; the only thing they cared about was money and Arthur having kids whom he would raise up to make even more money. He had so many stories of times when he’d been hurt and in need of his mother, or when he’d been terrifyingly sick as a child, and not once had he seen anyone but his doctor, nurse, and nanny.

They didn’t know that Arthur lost his whole inheritance the day he swallowed his fears and insecurities and took Eames home to meet his parents. And it wasn’t as if his parents had to try hard to forget that they had a son after that. There were no pictures of his first steps, they weren’t there for his first words or his first day of kindergarten, and had sent him a check for a million dollars when he’d graduated both his high school and college, nothing more.

Arthur didn’t know what to do around people who cared for others the way the Eames family did—people who _weren’t_ hired help, and his parents even had his perception of hired help distorted, so when Eames’ brother gave him his customary bear hug and his mother and father pulled out the anthology sized photo albums, he… just couldn’t handle it.

Eames was his only saving grace because Arthur was stubborn, but Eames was so much more so. Robert had provided the boy with mediocre sex. Eames made him see stars, _and_ dug his heels in and forced Arthur to hold his hand in public, _and_ forced Arthur to keep track of their anniversaries, _and_ taught him how to cuddle, how to have a phone conversation without words, how to cook dinner for two people, how to spot an emotion and vocalize it.

Eames knew Arthur, knew how to spot that desperate look in his eyes when he needed Eames to help him crack another layer of the iceberg around his heart.

He would be here. He would be here for his Eames… He had to. If not today then maybe tomorrow, or next week. Eames had lost his legs, lost his strength and his purpose as a soldier. Arthur was the only thing he had left. He had to come back.

+

 


	2. Chapter 2

+

 

“What do you want to be when you grow up, hm?” Eames dreamed about the time he’d had asked, and had received the flattest glare Arthur could muster.

Even sprawled out on the floor in Eames’ shabby flat, playing with a condom wrapper and his shirt and graduation robes still hiked up around his chest, Arthur’s glares could have been considered legendary.

“I _am_ an adult. With a BA from Princeton and a Masters from Oxford now.”

“Oh, of course, you’re very much an adult,” Eames had said, wrapping an arm around Arthur's waist. “ _Legally_ , but there’s a difference, don’t you think?”

Arthur had frowned. “I think it’s a little too soon to imply that _I’m_ immature right now. I’m not the one who thought it was funny when the condom broke,” he huffed.

Eames couldn’t hold back his grin or resist the urge to pulled Arthur in closer. “Relax. We’ve got nothing to worry about, right?” He kissed a trail from stomach to hip, feeling Arthur shrug.

He’d blinked. “I’ve never been tested before.”

“Oh, well…” Eames had only shrugged back, completely wrapped up in his little trail of kisses across the back of his knee, moving to nestle once again between his legs. “I don’t care. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Arthur, surprised and confused, had stared and stared, but nothing except Eames’ usual fondness had shown through. He couldn’t help but blush and look away, smiling too. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to do porn,” he’d answered matter-of-factly.

Eames remembered his eyebrows shooting up to the ceiling and his jaw hitting the floor. “You’d be fucking perfect at that,” he’d sputtered, choking on air.

Arthur hummed when Eames lifted his hips off the floor, tightening his legs around his neck. “I could use this check from my parents to fly out to California and then send them the movies in the mail when they come out.”

“You’d be a star, pet. And fucking rich.”

He snorted. “I’d give the money to charity and have a little flat somewhere, like this one. Maybe drive a bike to work.”

“And give you poor mother and father both heart attacks? My god, Arthur, you are pure evil.”

“They’d have no one to blame but themselves,” he said, frowning. He was propped up on his elbows to see Eames better. “Eames?”

“Hm, darling?”

“You know I don’t really want to do porn.”

“I know, love,” he muttered, crooked teeth grazing Arthur’s always-smooth perineum. “For as many orgasms as you demand in a day, you are still quite prudish.”

“Hey, that’s—stop it, that tickles!” He’d giggled himself silly. “You know, I’m surprised. You’d actually want me to fuck other guys on camera, wouldn’t you?”

“No, but I wouldn’t mind if that’s what you wanted. You in any form are perfect for me. You know that.” He watched Arthur’s smile drop like a fallen tree. It stung whenever Arthur withdrew inside himself. Eames kissed a spot of beard burn on his thigh. “I’ll just have to try harder to make sure the sex I give you is better than theirs, so you won’t run off with one of them instead.”

Arthur dimpled again, though the sadness in his eyes remained. “Well, good luck trying. Those guys don’t fix sinks for a living.”

Eames lowered Arthur's legs and laid his head on a skinny hip. “You wound me. All the time.” He'd only been half joking.

He remembered Arthur's voice being nearly a whisper, as if he'd hurt himself in the process of rejecting Eames' feelings. “Still think I’m perfect?”

“Is rain wet, Arthur?”

+

Arthur blinked when his vision went blurry and dry. Frowning, he glanced over at the clock on the bedside table.

He’d been lost, staring down at his feet over the edge of the bed for nearly half an hour again.

It had become an annoying habit, getting lost, losing time. He might as well have stayed in bed longer, except, today was the day he’d promised himself that he would…

He buried his head in his hands. Going back to sleep for a few more hours couldn’t hurt. No amount of yawning and stretching and rubbing his face stopped him from feeling so tired.

Climbing under the hotel’s sheets was a great idea in theory, but the second he lied down and closed his eyes, he was overcome by a familiar spike of panic. What if today was the day? What if he ended up being too late, by an hour, or five minutes?

But then, that day had probably passed the second after Eames’ mom first called him. Arthur hadn’t checked his messages or even turned his phone back on since then. There was no other way of describing it. He was terrified. 

If Eames could see him now, he’d been incredibly disappointed. Arthur had been in this hotel room almost as long as he’d stalled at the airport, making up his mind to go to Eames, then deciding to leave, and then changing his mind again.

He’d been living – no, he’d been drifting – in a fog of uncertainty for weeks now, which had to be worse than knowing, right? Because if he did go, and if he did find out once and for all, there wouldn’t be any possibility to hold on to. If Eames was… If Eames was dead, then…

Waking up this morning after dreaming, when he hadn’t dreamt in months, if not years, of the time he’d almost drowned in the ocean when Eames didn't know he couldn't swim couldn’t be a good sign. In fact, that had to be the last grain of proof he needed that it was time to mourn and move on.

He looked out through the shear curtains over the expansive windows. He could see the airport from here. If he left now, perhaps he could be in London by evening and start moving his things out of the apartment.

Perhaps.

He rubbed his face again before heading to the shower, his mind finally made up for good this time.

+

Eames wasn’t sad or angry waking up after surgery. His right arm had been paralyzed for longer than he could remember at this point, after being in the hospital for over a month. Waking up and seeing it finally gone was just a punctuation mark at the end of that long sentence.

He wasn’t upset. He just was.

“Doc says everything went well,” his brother had been telling him as he tried not to fall asleep again. James was too big of a man to sit on the edge of his bed, so he’d pulled over a chair. He had his arms folded and perched over the side of the bed rails, chin resting on his hands.

Eames could still remember a time when, fresh back from his first tour, he’d been able to wrestle James to the ground. He’d never been taller than James or wider, but for a time, he’d been able to best him at something.

He closed his eyes. It must have been the medication he was hooked up to; how else could he have felt taunted or intimidated by a pair of elbows?

“Georgie,” his brother prompted to get his attention, thinking he’d drifted off. “Hey. Doc says with physical therapy, someday you might be able to…you know,” he shrugged, “get some of your life back.”

Eames couldn’t understand why this was important. His nose itched. One arm was gone and the other was trapped in a bedside restraint for reasons he could hardly remember, and he was tired of having to ask James to scratch it for him. The man could never get it right. And if James was useless in that regard, Eames didn’t care to have him hovering, with his biceps and wrists and empty encouragements.

“Where is Arthur?”

“Jesus Christ, George,” James cursed. As expected, he stood and walked away, shaking his head. “I already told you, mate. It’s been…well it’s been long enough, alright? He’s not coming,” he said over his shoulder, for what must have felt like the hundredth time.

Well, at least James was out of his face now, but Eames regretted making their mom cry again in the process. Eames watched her try to calm James down, but in the end, she let him walk out.

“It’s okay, Georgie.” The stout woman smiled tiredly, adjusting his pillow and dabbing at her eyes. “I’m sure everything will be just fine.”

He let her nag over his sheets and the tubes peeking out from under the collar of his hospital gown. “Yeah...of course. Thanks, ma.” He closed his eyes, ready now to return to his fitful sleep and his dreams of Arthur when a soft knock at door brought him back to the surface. He had half a mind to get his mother to send the nurse off. He was tired of their constant poking and prodding. Their empty encouragements were even more unbelievable than James’.

But the nurse never came in, didn’t speak to his parents, nor did his parents speak to the nurse.

The room was too quiet. Eames cracked open an eye and closed it back, confused. He thought he was still awake, but clearly, he was already dreaming.

“Eames?”

That hesitant voice made his chest hurt. “Arthur?”

After a minute, Arthur took a tiny step forward, still hovering in the doorway, ready to run if Eames' parents got too close. However, Eames noticed, if James came back, Arthur would have no choice but to actually step in or continue awkwardly blocking the entrance. Arthur cleared his throat. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Eames wanted to fight down his drowsiness so that he could make sense of all this, but in the end, he failed. “What on earth are you doing all the way here in Landstuhl when you live in London, pet?”

+


	3. Chapter 3

+

 

Eames wasn’t sure which was worse: thinking Arthur had shown up and it not be true, or dreaming of the man again.

When Eames opened his eyes, awake now, the room was dead silent, save for the soft hum and beep of machines.

In any other situation, perhaps, this would all be really funny. Eames’ mother had a look on her face like she was an extra on the happy kid’s show that was on the tv, while his dad glared up at the person next to him. Big James, and his big, angry crossed arms, was glaring down at the person as well, as if he and his dad were an odd club bouncer duo.

Arthur himself… Eames couldn’t believe he was actually… Arthur had his shoulders hunched, but his head was held high, his face in the mask his always wore around Eames’ family—one of cold indifference and superiority, because these people absolutely terrified the poor boy.

James’ eyes bore into the side of Arthur’s face, but it was he who first noticed Eames watching them. “Georgie, if you want me to kick him out, I’ll—”

“Come here,” Eames said to Arthur, making his brother and father sigh and his mom tsk sympathetically. Eames forgot himself then. He tried to sit up, to look more… _himself_ …in front of Arthur. His mother rushed forward to help him. He could be embarrassed about that later. Right now, however, his brain still couldn’t be sure that Arthur was really Arthur.

Arthur still hadn’t moved. His eyes traveled from the ceiling to the floor, his hands fumbling with the strap on his satchel. “Um… I…” Arthur swallowed before nodding curtly, awkward. “James is right, I should…” His voice wavered as he pointed to the door.

Eames smiled, maybe for the first time in months. If he was anything like Arthur, he’d prolong this moment, just to see how long it would take before Arthur’s nervousness and the flood of tears he had dammed up became so unbearable that he left, but thankfully, Eames knew that if Arthur was pushed far enough, he really would run and definitely not come back this time. “Ah…mum, dad, do you think we could, um…”

James snorted, looking from Eames to Arthur. “Unbelievable,” he bit out. He ushered his parents into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Arthur seemed to come alive at once, all the tension in him released like air out of a tire. He ran a hand through his hair before hurrying over to the bed. His hands hovered, not sure what to do, where to touch without hurting Eames. “Fuck,” was all he could say at first, choked up as tears streamed down his face. He quickly wiped his cheeks. “I thought you were dead,” he sobbed, “but you…just look dead, but you’re not.”

Eames’ laugh came out as short, pained sigh. “I’m not, and you… You came, baby.” His own eyes burned now, but he couldn’t wipe his eyes.

“I would have come sooner, but—”

“You were scared. I know you.”

Arthur nodded, his eyes on the floor. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.” He opened and closed his mouth several times, still glancing from Eames’ face to some other point other than his body.

It was obvious that Arthur’s brain wanted him to ask Eames _what_ and _how_ he’d ended up here in this bed, but no words came out. Not that easy. Never that easy with Arthur, always stuck between the times when he was too unfiltered and the times he was too afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Eames grinned, looking Arthur over. “You’re wearing my coat.”

“I am!” Arthur sobbed again, beaming even as new tears fell from his wet lashes. He was always so pleased to hear that tone of voice from Eames, Eames was sure, not to mention relieved to change the subject, even though the subject still had yet to be voiced. Arthur wrapped the coat more smugly around himself. “A couple months after you’d been deployed,” he paused to wipe his eyes again, “I went out to buy alcohol—”

“ _You_ bought alcohol?”

“Yes…” His teary-eyed smile faltered, replaced by a look much more suited for the Arthur Eames loved. “What’s wrong with me buying alcohol, Eames?”

Eames eyed him with a smirk. “You looked online first, to see which brands had the least amount of calories in it, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, Eames.” His ears were bright red. “ _Anyways_ , I was at the store and didn’t have my ID, so I almost got arrested—”

“Because they thought you were eleven.”

“They thought I was eleven, yes.” The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked up, making Eames’ chest ache, seeing that cute little thing. “Turns out," Arthur continued, seemingly remembering his train of thought, "I _did_ have my ID, because I never forget things like that. It was just…buried in one of these big pockets somewhere. There are pockets inside of pockets that also have pockets,” he rambled, before combing his hand through his hair again. 

Heavy silence fell between them. Arthur had yet to actually step within arm’s reach of the bed. Eames watched him with tired eyes as Arthur fiddled with the coat’s zipper.

Eames was sure his cheeks were red, unable to ignore it any longer, when he asked the one question that had been on his mind all this time. “Arthur, could you scratch under my chin for me?”

Arthur looked as if he was about to ask why Eames couldn’t do it himself. All this time, he seemed to avoid actually looking at Eames, apart from his face. His eyes glanced down quickly at first but returned to his arm.

“Why are you restrained?”

“I got a little excited from some drug they put me on and tried to climb out of bed. I guess they think I was headed for the window or something and might try again.”

“How? You only have one—Oh god, I’m sorry.” Arthur paled. "I..."

Eames sighed. "That took longer than I thought it would."

"It was an accident. I didn't mean for it to come out like that," Arthur muttered, "I didn't mean for it to come out period."

“You look good,” Eames countered, his chin still itching.

Arthur smiled a little. At long last he finally stepped closer, his hands on the bed railing. “You…too… I mean…” He bit his lip, ten million things swirling around in his head, no doubt. He hesitated a little. Finally, he scratched Eames' chin for him, stroking over stubble with the pad of his thumb in a deep massage. Perfect.

Eames saved Arthur again from another uncomfortable silence. “Where were you?”

“I’d been traveling for a bit.” Arthur shrugged. “My grandfather died—”

“Shit, I’m sorry—”

Arthur waved flippantly. “It’s fine. It happens. But since he and my parents never stayed in touch – big surprise – he didn’t know I’d been cut off, so I was left a bit of money. I was in Beijing, when…your mom…” He looked past Eames. “Oh, I quit my job, too.”

“Well, you’re rich again. Who wouldn’t quit? Still though, I thought you loved that job."

“I had to quit,” Arthur said to the heart monitor. “I…”

Eames’ brow rose. “You…?” He expected Arthur to glare like he always did when Eames picked on him, but the fire was gone. “Arthur?”

Arthur's hand was back in his hair, a new tick, Eames supposed. “Eames, I did…a bad thing.”

“A bad thing, as in you got caught stealing office supplies, or a bad thing, as in you were caught laundering money from—”

“No. We—I got offered a transfer to the New York office, and…so my boss and a few of us went there for the weekend, and…surprise!” Arthur grimaced. “Robert was there. Remember him?”

The machines’ constant beeps filled the space again as Eames stared at Arthur. “Of course I do.”

Arthur nodded. “Right, of course you do—but before you say anything, I know this already sounds like this story is going to be… _incredibly terrible_ , but—”

“Is that how you’ve been keeping busy? Fucking your ex while I was drowning in blood, on fire? While I was alone here? Is that really why it took you so long to show up?”

Arthur faltered again, severely. His shoulders sank. “No. Are you nuts? You put him in the hospital one time. Why would I want to fuck that? And, yes, for the record, I…” His anger fizzled out. “I’m pretty sure we didn’t fuck.”

“Pretty sure?”

“Yes. I was blackout drunk, we made out, and… You hadn’t called in a really long time and you know how my brain stops working, but I still quit that job, my dream job, because I refused to work with him. I was unemployed and back in London before the weekend was over. And I know this will be the most ridiculous thing I tell you, and I know it's completely beside the point, but I _have_ been here for a while. In Germany, I mean. I was just afraid…that you were dead. Your mom’s message… I shut down.”

Eames stared at him for a long time. “But Robert Fischer did _not_ fuck you?”

“No! Okay?” Arthur shook his head. “I wouldn't be here if I wanted him.” He reached under the railing, taking Eames’ hand with immeasurable care.

Eames stared at their joined hands before looking up at Arthur’s face, searching his eyes. His voice was low. “Are you sure, darling? This,” he looked down at himself, "this body's permanent. The doctor says that with time and physical therapy, I might be a candidate for prosthetics, but that's a long, long road until then, and beyond. One that you didn't sign up for."

Arthur was quiet for a long time, staring at Eames' face. At first, Eames figured he'd tell him he was right and leave, but instead, Arthur shrugged. "You didn't sign up for this either, you know."

"It was a risk and I accepted that risk, but you, you're..."

"I'm not like you," Arthur supplied.

"Right." Eames had to look away for a second. "That's right." A huge part of him did wish that he was dreaming now, because Arthur had his 'deal breaker' face on, the one he'd worn every time they'd broken up in the past, over differences in furniture preferences, career choices, Eames keeping their kitchen stocked with junk food and pastries even though Arthur was dieting for the hundredth time, or Eames wanting to live in a not-so-great part of London instead of somewhere posh, and pricey. 

"I don't care." Arthur said softly. "What kind of person would I be, then?"

"Come on, Arthur," Eames squeezed his hand. "You don't have to prove anything to me, you never did. If you... If you need space, or... if you need to go, then I'm not stopping you."

Arthur stared at him again, before huffing. "Glad you think so highly of me, Mr. Eames."

It was Eames' turn to glare. "Look at me, then.  _No_ , I mean, actually look at me. You haven't the entire time you've been standing here." He took his hand away from Arthur's, but he couldn't move it far in the restraint. 

Arthur glanced at the floor, the wall, even the window before stealing a quick glance, then another. His neutral expression crumbled. He squeezed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths. "Christ, Eames, why did you have to go and have this happen?"

"Because getting blown up is fun, Arthur. Why else would anyone be there?"

"It's not funny, Eames! Fuck." He rubbed his face. "Are you hurting, is there pain? How long will they keep you here? Do you have to stay indefinitely?"

"No, no, no. Hush, stop freaking out, baby. I'm fine. You hear me? I'm fine."

Arthur rubbed his face harder, his voice wavering. "How is this fine? How could this happen to you? You're the  _only_ nice person I know, Eames. Why you?"

"Arthur, stop, I'm sorry."

"Why are  _you_ sorry?"

"Come here, boy. Get me out of this bloody cuff thing."

Arthur's eyes went wide like a child's. "No! They'll kick me out if I touch anyth—" He sighed when Eames gave him a hard look. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

As soon as the velcro strap was pulled open, Eames caught Arthur's arm and pulled him down across his chest, then he wrapped his arm over Arthur's back. Eames' shoulder burned, but he didn't care. Arthur fell silent and slack as he let himself be held. His arms slid carefully around Eames' waist, as far as the wires and tubes let him. Eames kissed the top of his head as Arthur buried his face in his neck. 

This was definitely better than dreaming, Eames finally decided. He knew that in the evening, he'd wake up alone again, with Arthur headed to some far away city, starting a new life, free from burden, but until then, Eames closed his teary eyes and held him close. He'd wanted this for so long,  _fought_ for it. More than the need to see his family again, Eames had fought to stay alive so that he could have Arthur close just one last time. 

He let him go, feeling the telltale signs of drowsiness returning. He smiled when Arthur held his hand again. "Listen, I'll be off in La La land again pretty soon." He cleared his throat, wincing at the pain in his chest. "Good bye, Arthur." 

Arthur tilted his head and tried not to acknowledge Eames’ family returning to the room, but his awkward hold on Eames’ hand grew rigid, stiff. “Wait, what are you saying?”

“I told you, Arthur. I get it. You’re attracted to men who look good. You always have been. I…I don’t look good anymore, so yeah, I get it.”

“No! Stop saying that! That’s—” Arthur stammered. “That’s not fair. I—” The strain to keep himself from bolting was immense now that Eames’ mother hovered in the doorway with James, staring at him, but he gripped the railing and Eames' hand and battled through his feelings. “You’re still _you_ , Eames. Nothing's changed. You…can just…" he grimaced, shrugging, "fit in my suitcase now. And, god willing that your dick still works, I always liked riding in your lap anyways, so...um...”

Eames choked and coughed, laughing so hard that he cried. Arthur was now completely mortified, as Eames’ mother gaped at him for what she’d just heard him say.

+  

 


	4. Chapter 4

+

 

Eames looked back at the big, blue ocean then again at Arthur’s scowl. “What?”

Arthur peered at the beach around them past his dark sunglasses as if Eames had taken him to a trash dump. “I said, I don’t like beaches.”

“What person doesn’t like going to the beach? It’s a beach.”

Arthur sighed. “You’re going to get heavily sunburned and won’t want me to touch you until all your skin peels off, but don't worry. I won't want to touch you either in that timespan. We’ll both get sweaty and gross, and smell like seaweed and fish, and by the end of the day, we’ll be itchy with sand under our balls, Eames. Behind you is nothing but boring water. Behind me is nothing but a bunch of tacky hotels and gimmicky restaurants. To your left, there’s a man who looks like my father, in a speedo, which is just…wrong on all levels. To my left, there are two completely naked elderly men making out under their umbrella and they’re making me uncomfortable. What’s to like?”

Now it was Eames’ turn to glare. “Well, suck it up, because it’s  _my_  birthday and you told me I could pick what we do this time.”

Arthur tilted his head and squinted his eyes the way he always did when gearing up to be so utterly condescending that Eames wanted to choke him out every time. “But do you see now, Mr. Eames, that this is why you never get to pick anything,” he explained, taking Eames’ hand as if he were a parent telling a child he couldn’t wear a tutu on his head on his first day of kindergarten.

Eames stepped back, strategically crossing his arms and looking back at the water. “I see your point. This was a definite mistake."

Arthur beamed. "Exactly."

"Tell you what, I’ll drive you back home and then I’ll call up my buddies and we’ll spend the day at the beach ourselves.”

“No.”

“No?”

“ _No_.”

Eames smirked. He didn’t even feel guilty for his trick. Arthur hated Eames' American friends, particularly after he’d found out that Eames had dated half of them while they were stationed together. If they liked the beach and Arthur didn’t, in Arthur’s mind, Eames would most certainly leave him for one of them. Arthur’s mind was always a dark and extreme place, but predictable. Conveniently predictable, for Eames. “Come on, babe, let’s get you in a sexy bikini.”

Leave it to Arthur to pick the tiniest, skimpiest pair of swim briefs in the store. So it seemed Arthur had a few tricks up his sleeve too.

Arthur twisted around so Eames could see the cut of the briefs on his ass as every man around them stared. He blushed and chuckled when two muscleheads walking by whistled at him. “See, Eames? All these men leering at me is making me even more uncomfortable." He took Eames' hands. "But if you like seeing me in these shorts, we  _could_  always just book a hotel here. I could blow you in the hot tub? Or you could just fuck me in the car? Pretend I’m a hookup you found at a bar or something else fun.”

Eames hid his smirk better this time. His arms circled around Arthur's lean waist to squeeze his ass. “Your briefs are cute, but I’d rather see you out of them.”

Arthur grinned. “Excellent!”

Eames nodded. “You’re right, it is awfully crowded here,  _but_  luckily I do know a secluded spot where we could swim to, just up the shore. We could get completely naked in the water there without you being gawked at.”

Arthur shoulders sank. Eames was one hundred percent sure that it took everything in Arthur not to stomp his foot and throw a full-blown tantrum. Arthur sighed, looking miserably in the direction Eames pointed to. “Right. That sounds fantastic.”

“You sure you don’t want me to hang out with the boys instead? It’s still early.”

“No, Eames. I’m perfectly happy here. Now lead the way before someone else finds the spot.”

“Have you ever thought of acting? No? Good, don’t.”

"Fuck you, Eames."

Looking back, both Arthur and Eames remembered this day well. Had Arthur simply flat-out told Eames that he didn’t like  _water_ , not necessarily just beaches, because he didn’t know how to swim, Eames wouldn’t have pushed him so much. Of course, Arthur would rather keep silent and drown instead.

He’d kept Eames distracted from wading out to the deeper water for as long as he could, but once Eames led them away from the rocks, there was nothing more he could do but hold onto Eames’ neck.

“Arthur, darling, you’re pulling me underwater,” Eames had teased, trying to pry Arthur’s arms from around his neck. “You can’t drown me on my birthday.”

Arthur hugged him tighter, his legs wrapped around Eames’ middle, his lips pressed to Eames’ forehead. “Why can’t we stay where we were? We’re going to get eaten by sharks or a wave’s going to send us crashing into the rocks and kill us.”

“If you nag me one more time, I’m dropping you, you brat.”

He’d kept his mouth shut for twenty seconds. “Eames, it’s too hot out here. Let’s go back to that cave you just passed.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Eames dipped under the water just as a small wave rolled over them. He bobbed up quickly, wiping the water from his face as he turned to discover that he was alone. “Arthur?  _Arthur_?” Eames immediately went back under, reaching out blindly to find Arthur and pull him back up.

He caught his waist, his face narrowly colliding with a wild elbow. Arthur’s glare never looked more deadly even as he choked and coughed, hanging onto Eames' arm.

Arthur found himself piggybacking on Eames as they made the way back to the smooth rocks to get out of the water. "From now on, Eames," he panted, coughing still, "just punch me if I piss you off. Don't try to fucking kill me. Trust me, there are always... _always_ other alternatives."

Eames was stuck in a war between guilt and irritation. In the end, irritation won. “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn't swim, you idiot?”

Arthur blinked up at him. “I never tell you anything." He lay on his side, his eyes closed, happy to have something solid under him. “For  _my_  birthday? I’m pinning you to a target board at a gun range and shooting at you. Deal?”

"Do you want me to carry you back, or are you content to find your own way back to shore?"

"I think my whole life flashed before me, Eames. I didn't see anything good."

"Yeah? What'd you see?"

"Your stupid face. Now teach me how to swim so I can get out of here after I dump your ass."

"Again, baby?"

"Again."

"This will be at least the nineteenth time this year."

+

The first thing Arthur did after arriving in London with Eames and his family was schedule an appointment with his therapist. He’d been having that beach memory show up in his dreams every single time he did dream. Maybe she could tell him what the hell it was supposed to mean. Hopefully.

He glanced down at Eames and quickly averted his eyes back to his phone, fighting the temptation to text his therapist again and beg to have a longer session planned. They’d need to discuss a whole lot more than a dream. Answers to questions like, how he could stop the urge to hide behind his phone whenever Eames’ parents were around, or how to listen to the nurses when they talked to him, and most importantly, how not to be a complete jerk, over all, about Eames’ ‘situation’. This couldn't possibly fit into one hour. 

He glanced down again with no new luck. Arthur didn’t like Eames’ family. It wasn’t their fault. He liked to believe that it wasn’t his either. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t praying and praying that they’d decide move to the city and keep caring for Eames. The mother alone would suffice. She never once flinched while changing Eames’ bandages, never stop smiling at her ‘brave soldier’ when his nightmares made him shiver for hours after, crying, and trying to reach for limbs that weren’t there. Only she could handle that. Arthur couldn't, and probably never would if he was honest with himself about his limited grasp of caretaking, even after weeks of 'training' from the nurses and Eames' mom.

“Arthur, are you paying attention?”

“Oh—Yes, Mrs. Eames.” Arthur’s smile came out as a grimace, though thankfully neither she nor Eames saw it. They were both still wrapping fresh bandages over his thigh stumps. His right leg had kept Eames in the hospital for two extra weeks, thanks to an infection. As soon as Eames' dad and brother got the luggage and car ready, they’d be headed to the hospital here for a checkup before going home to make sure the infection wasn't gearing up for a comeback. It would make continuing Eames' physical therapy even more difficult and greatly hinder his chances of a prosthetic, if that were case.

"Alright, Georgie darling," Eames' mom proclaimed, "right leg is done. Now on to the left."

Eames shooed away his mother's hands, able to unwrap and clean this one himself, though he didn't complain when she gave him a helping hand where Eames' needed it the most, when it came to peeling off the undermost bandages. "Yeah, this one looks much better than the right," Eames mused to her. "It's hardly even red now."

Arthur was sure he was going to either get nauseous or pass out if he had to stand in this airport bathroom for one more second.

"Let's still hold off training for the marathons for a while longer, dear," his mother teased, smiling again and patting Eames' wheelchair break handle.

Arthur texted his therapist a three hundred character-long SOS begging for that longer session. He'd never texted someone this fast in his life.

+

Eames could already tell this wasn’t going to work the minute his family got him settled in the flat and left for their little home, all the way in Cowley. 

He could almost feel Arthur's nervous energy as he listened to him move about in the open living room. 

Arthur stood beside the couch. “Are you hungry?”

Eames shrugged his good shoulder. “A little.”

“Okay, great. I’ll order something. There's a new Thai place nearby?”

“Arthur,” he had to call when the man darted out of the room for menus, “I’m not too hot on heavy foods just yet, remember?”

“Oh…”

Eames could almost see Arthur’s shoulders sink behind him when Arthur muttered that sad, little word. “How about,” Eames tried, “maybe…soup? Do we still have some in the shelves?"

Arthur perked up. “I think so! I’ll go check.” But he was back in a flash, standing awkwardly beside the couch again. He sighed. "I forgot to stock up once my diet was over, so we're out. Sorry.”

Eames shifted to see him better, his brow raised and smirk on his lips. “You? Diet? No way!” he teased, remembering too late how much of a bad idea that was. 

Sure enough, Arthur’s face paled as if he’d been caught standing outside with no clothes on. He looked down at himself and back to Eames. “Oh no. I stopped counting my calories for the last couple of months, because of stress, so I know I must've gain at least three pounds by now. Do you think I need to do it again?”

“No, Arthur, you tit. You didn’t need to do anything the first few million times. If you starve yourself again, a pigeon will swoop down on you and use you for nest building as soon as you step foot out on that sidewalk.”

Arthur glared. " _Funny_. Don't scare me like that."

"I'm sorry, baby." Eames chuckled, watching Arthur eye him. He almost felt like…like things were normal again.

Arthur scratched the back of his neck. “I can make soup from scratch, I guess?”

Eames snorted. “You don’t know how to cook, rich boy."

Arthur rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone. "Ha! See?" He showed him the recipe he'd searched for. "It'll be a piece of cake."

It was awful. Eames settled for a box of crackers.

"It's alright, darling. Come here and sit with me.” Eames patted the space beside him. "Feels like it's been ages since I've sat on a _couch_ , in my  _home_ , no less, even though it was still a short deployment, you know? Although, considering, now it feels like I was in the hospital longer than I was…abroad…" he muttered, distracted by the television. "You've been awfully busy, pet. Usually, you would have watched all of these shows without me."

"Sorry I used up all the box space." Arthur glanced at him, still shaking the crumbs off of Eames' shirt. "I'd figured that, you know, you'd want to watch your favorite shows too, when you got back. I…um. I saved them for us to watch together." 

Eames was speechless. "You're not a robot, after all. That was very thoughtful, babe. Thank you."

Arthur began to say that he simply didn't want to have to recap Eames on everything after the fact, because he hated repeating himself, but he smiled instead, his chest tight. In those early months, it had seemed like the hardest thing to hope for Eames to come back, but over time, doing small things like this had helped. He scooted closer, mindful of any of Eames' hurts, but Eames reached for him, repositioning himself so that Arthur could lay against his side. 

"Forget a couch," Eames muttered against Arthur's hair after a while, rubbing Arthur's arm, " _this,_ right here, is what I'd really been missing." 

+

When it was time for bed, Arthur hovered in the bathroom doorway in case Eames needed help redressing his legs and arm after his bath. Thankfully, Eames could manage most of it by himself, although Arthur had to dash into the bathroom, his heart stopping every time, when Eames almost lost his balance. Arthur got him into his t-shirt and sweatpants, tying a knot in both pant legs so they wouldn't drag and helped him from the tub's edge onto the wheelchair. He was panting by the time he got Eames back to the living room. **  
**

Arthur groaned as he looked up the stairs, scratching his head. “Shit. Why did we ever get this apartment?”

“Because you liked it when I carried you up those stairs, remember? It’s a nice flat, and cheap." He smiled. "It’s alright, love. The couch pulls out. I’m fine here until we figure out something else. Or until we move.”

“I…can sleep down here with you.”

Eames snorted. Arthur was still looking longingly up the stairs, no doubt pining for the bed.

“I’ll go get the humidifier,” Arthur tried not to sigh.

“No, the space is too open for that little thing. I’ll be fine. This is still better than being at the hospital.”

Arthur glanced from the stairs to Eames with an unreadable expression. “You sure? I can…I can stay down here until my sinuses start flipping out?”

“Go. Upstairs. I’ll call you if I need you, okay?”

“I just…” Arthur sighed at last. He’d never felt so useless in his life. He got the couch pulled out, fitted with sheets and blankets, and brought down his pillow for Eames to sleep on, berating himself in his mind the entire time for being such a terrible boyfriend.

He kissed Eames' forehead when he tucked him in. “Eames…” His chin was caught in Eames' hand before he was kissed. It was the first time their lips had touched since... He sank onto the mattress, holding Eames' face, forgetting for now how wrong everything else in the world felt. For now, this was amazing, this was easy, and normal, and—

Eames patted Arthur’s cheek. “Good night, doll. I'll see you in the morning.”

Arthur stood slowly, his cheeks flushed. "Okay." He smiled and nodded, swallowing his scream of frustration. "Good night, Mr. Eames."

+

Upstairs, Arthur paced a hole in the floor and chewed his nails off after he’d dressed down in Eames’ boxers and t-shirt. All he could do was wonder if he’d done the right thing in leaving Eames alone downstairs. He was pretty sure he hadn’t, but then Eames had insisted, and the pamphlets at the hospital had said not for Arthur to be pushy.

He glared at his humidifier and the soft, welcoming bed. He covered his face, groaning. “Why am I such a fucking weirdo?”

Whatever force inside him that had told him to grab Eames’ old pillow and march downstairs, humidifier be damned, was just in the nick of time.

“Eames!” He nearly tripped the rest of the way down when he saw his boyfriend reach for the wheelchair and miss, landing on the floor. “What are you doing?”

Eames cursed and winced at Arthur’s awkward maneuvering as he got pulled back off the floor and onto the mattress. “I got thirsty. I thought the chair was much closer than that.”

It _had_ been. Arthur had just forgotten to move it back after he’d fixed the blankets. “Are you okay? Do I need to take you t—”

“I’m alright.” He wrapped his arm over Arthur’s shoulder to hold on as Arthur moved him further up to the pillow. “Wait. No, no, I’m not fine. Fuck, something’s wrong. Oh fuck me, my back. Oh god.”

+

Arthur looked as awful as Eames felt when they got back from the emergency room some time close to sunrise.

Had it not been for a drunken neighbor and his taxi driver to help Arthur with the wheelchair and front door, he and Eames would have been stuck outside at the bottom on the steps.

Eames tumbled back onto the couch with an exhausted sigh and pulled Arthur nearly on top of him. He turned on the TV and kissed Arthur’s forehead. “Well, babe, let’s just write off today as a practice run. Tomorrow sounds like a good place to start over. Now we know the importance of medicine schedules... pillow placement...”

"I'd moved the wheelchair and forgot to put it back." Arthur blurted out. He buried his face in Eames’ armpit. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Arthur, it’s not your fault. It was just a little mistake, that's all. Darling, no, don’t cry. What's wrong with you?” Eames rubbed his back, heartbroken by his little sobs. “Come on, babe.”

“Why is this so fucking hard? I just want you to be happy, but I keep making it worse. I wreck _everything_. I mean, what's going to happen when I go to the grocery store? Or my therapist? Do I take you with me? Fuck, I don't even drive. What if you have to go to the bathroom and can't make it when I'm not here? I don't know what to do. Eames, can we call your parents back?”

Eames hushed him, kissing his hair. “You’re doing fine. You caught me earlier. That was good."

"No, I didn't. The floorboards caught you. Hard, wooden floorboards, because I was upstairs being selfish."

"Stop that, Arthur. Come on. We're not ready, but we'll figure it out, okay? What were you even doing down here, anyways?” Eames spotted the forgotten pillow on the stairs. “Where you sneaking down to sleep with me?” When Arthur nodded against his chest, Eames grinned. “See?" He chuckled. "That little thing makes me feel loads better. It was a little creepy down here by myself. I'm glad that you were going to keep me company.”

Arthur peeked up at him, eyeing him with both suspicion and a little hope in his red eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah."

"I still want to, if you want me to."

"See there? You’re doing just fine, Arthur.”

+

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

+

 

Arthur didn’t want to say that he was hiding, but that was exactly what he was doing.

Eames' family and friends were visiting. It was a nightmare.

There was a countertop full of temptations,  _full of comforting mistakes_  that he’d wreck his weight on if he so much as stepped into that kitchen right now.

Why did Eames have to have friends? His family was one thing, but nobody had invited these other people, as far as Arthur was concerned.

Why were they so inconsiderate?

Why did they have to nitpick Arthur on  _every single little thing?_

If Eames’ pillows weren’t right, or if his bandaging was loose, or even if the temperature in the flat was too cold, well…Eames was a grown man for fuck's sake. He had a voice. He could have said something, but no. Let his parents meddle and nag and be assholes instead. 

"Arthur? There you are!" Eames' friend Zhang smirked as she peeked around the patio door. She leaned back until she could balance her wheelchair on its hind wheels and hopped it down the single step so she could come closer.

"Yeah," he tried to smile back, catching a whiff of pizza as she left the door opened. He tucked his legs up further underneath him as he sat curled up in a chair. "Just stepped out to check on some news."

She peered closer to see what was on his iPad screen. "We'll be out of your hair soon, don't worry."

"What? No! I like it that you all came to see him. Eames was approaching full-blown cabin fever--"

" _Eames_ , or you?" Zhang teased, laughing a little as she balanced on her back wheels again. 

He watched her for a moment. Her chair was different, not electric like Eames' since Zhang was paralyzed below her waist but she could use both of her arms. Still, he wondered if Eames would ever be so comfortable in his own chair. Eames had said that his therapist wasn't sure yet if he'd be able to use prosthetics, so... he could be wheelchair bound for life. Arthur wished he could leave the house entirely, for a walk, but he was certain that hiding in the backyard must have already been rude enough.

"You should take him out!" Zhang said, full of energy that Arthur didn't have. "Does he go with you shopping or to see a movie?  _Anything_?"

"No, just his physical therapy appointments."

"Oh come on, Arthur! Do better. He's not a plant."

Arthur bristled. "He's not ready yet, okay?  We're just being careful right now. He's only been out of the hospital for a month. I'm just giving him time and avoiding more stress. We'll get there when we get there."

"Hey, whatever you say, but he's going to turn into one of those fat cats that sit on windowsills all day glaring at passing children." She snorted. "I'm kidding, Arthur, but seriously, do better. I need my boxing buddy back," she teased, poking Arthur's knee. 

"Yup, I found her," Zhang's husband, Desmond, James' best friend, yelled back into the house before he and several others took over the patio. He glanced at Arthur, looking down at him. "They're doing a hunt for you inside. You might want to let Eames know you weren't kidnapped or something, yeah? Oi, James, bring me those burgers. Your little brother never said he had a grill out here. Let's burn some meat!" 

Arthur hummed out an unamused laughed as Desmond and Eames' brother, who had yet to even speak to Arthur, proceeded to destroy his precious chicken and fish he'd been saving, all the way in the back of the freezer, on the grill beside their own processed burger patties.

Inside, more people had showed up. With more food. The entire house smelled like food. 

"Arthur," Eames' mother guided him to the last place he wanted to be on earth. She took the lasagna out of the oven and set it on the stove before putting her hands on her hips. "Are you feeding my son?"

"Yes, of course, ma'am."

"Are you sure? He should be putting on more weight by now."

Arthur sighed, his ears getting red. He wanted to shout at her that it was Eames' medication. "Okay."

"Listen, if you need help, call me and we'll stay. We can care for him ourselves if you can't."

"I'm trying."

"You have nothing in this kitchen that will keep him full, Arthur. Let me make you a list of groceries to pick up, okay? I'd be perfectly happy cooking for him myself rather than see him lose more weight. Alright?"

"Yes, ma'am." He wanted to crawl into the stove once she left, but Eames' father appeared, glaring as he always did at Arthur as he prepared himself and Eames a plate of the pasta, not saying a word. 

Arthur found himself alone in the kitchen then, pouring himself glass after glass of water. His stomach growled. Maybe he could do with some protein. Maybe make a salad. But thinking of having to prepare food in the midst of these pizzas and cakes and garbage just made him feel exhausted. 

He ate a spoonful of the lasagna. It was delicious. He took a fork and cut off a tiny tip of a pizza slice, making sure to mash out as much grease from that little forkful as possible before eating it. God, it was good. He pulled off the crust and ate that too. Maybe a small slice would be okay. He wanted to check the calories for it first, but couldn't search for them online. He opted for a small bowl of pasta instead, feeling it sit in his stomach like a brick.

He drank another glass of water and hurried away to sit beside Eames on the couch, ignoring the glances he got as he wedged his way between Eames and the aunt sitting next to him.

"Hey, baby," Eames beamed, giving Arthur's cheek quick kisses. "I thought you'd left. You okay?"

Arthur couldn't meet Eames' eyes. "Yup. I'm okay."

Eventually the people on the patio returned to the living room to watch a game on tv and soon, a plate of cake was set in Arthur's lap big enough for two Eameses.

Matt, Eames' ex, patted Arthur's cheek. "You ought to be more careful with your boy, old Georgie. He's thin as a whip, this Arthur. Eat, boy. Both of you. Amber made this cake herself."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Eames teased, eyeing his sister-in-law. "Amber, I hope you brought two of them here, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah. The other one I put in the kitchen with a note so no one else will touch it. Not even old James."

" _Good_ ," he nearly purred, gaining pleasant chuckles from those around him as he slid the plate more out of Arthur's lap towards him, looking ravenous.

"Remember to share like a good boy, Georgie," Amber scolded.

Arthur held up his hand. "No, I'm fine. I'm not hungry, thanks."

"Aw, Arthur, you hurt my feelings." 

As Eames' parents both glared, Eames glanced from Amber to Arthur, his brow raised in silent question, asking Arthur if he really was okay. Arthur smiled. He ate a small piece.

"Well?" Amber grinned. "Do I need to make a third cake now?"

"It's delicious. Thank you."

Eames' uncle asked, "Do you cook, Arthur?"

"Not really, no." Arthur sank lower on the couch, wishing it would swallow him whole.

"Well that's why George is so skinny now! Poor George!"

"Hush, you," Eames cut in with cake crumbs in his beard and his mouth full. "He takes care of me just fine." He ate both his slice and Arthur's as if he hadn't seen food in a week.

No doubt everyone sitting around them thought the same.

+

It was dark when they all finally left. Arthur was quiet as he helped Eames bathe, got him redressed, tying knots in the pants legs and shirt sleeve so Eames wouldn't get tangled in them, and tucked him into bed.

"Today was a good day, wasn't it?" Eames yawned, rubbing his full belly.

"Mhm."

"Mum's lasagna  _killed_."

"Yup."

"Hey." Eames reached for him, taking his hand. "Thank you, baby. I know they're a loud bunch and you don't like loud bunches."

"No, it's okay. I'm glad you had fun with your family."

He turned the light on in the kitchen and wanted to cry at the mess he now had to clean. He imagined that this was what workmen in hazmat suits handling extreme radiation felt like as he put a countertop full of leftovers into smaller containers for the fridge, pinned the bags of chips and stuffed them into the cabinets, and poured out the last of the sugar-filled soda bottles.

Well, Eames' family sure didn't have to complain about Eames starving now with a kitchen full of junk food. He sat on the floor, wiping sweat from his brow, but just as soon as Arthur finished putting everything away, he slowly began to pull things back out. 

He seemed to blink and suddenly, three hours had passed. The last box of pizza was gone, the quarter of one of Amber's cakes was gone, along with the rest of the large dish of Eames' mom's pasta. 

Arthur hurled until his throat hurt. He hugged his stomach, feeling numb as he curled up on his side on the bathroom floor. He hadn't binged in a long, long time, but he was relieved that he'd been quick to fix it.

"Arthur?" 

He sat up quickly, hurrying to make himself look less sickly, but it was too late. He'd left the bathroom door open. From the tears on Eames' cheeks, he may not have seen Arthur puke, but he'd heard it, and must have seen the mess in the kitchen as well and understood. 

"Eames, I'm okay."

"Jesus, baby, you're not." Eames wiped his eyes. "Don't lie to me." He wasn't sitting up properly in the wheelchair. He'd probably rushed to help Arthur and hadn't thought twice about risking a fall getting out of bed by himself.

It made Arthur feel a thousand times worse. "I'm sorry. I don't... This...doesn't happen...all the time. I'm sorry. I don't know how to explain this. I'm sorry."

"Baby, no." Eames sighed. "This isn't right. Come here." 

Arthur didn't budge at first, afraid that he'd make Eames as dirty as he felt, but he hated seeing Eames cry. "I ruined your day, Eames. I'm so sorry. Shit, I feel awful." 

Frustration flashed across Eames' face for a second. He wanted to stand, to comfort Arthur and hold him, but he couldn't. 

Arthur shuffled forward, blushing as he sat on the sink and tucked his feet under Eames' thighs so that he could touch him. He held Eames' hand. "I'm sorry."

"Tell me why," Eames begged. "Are...are you unhappy with me?"

"No, no, no!"

"But you're hurting yourself, Arthur. I don't understand. I try my best not to be a burden."

"You're not! It's not you. I swear."

"Then what?"

"Your family's right, okay? I don't know how to take care of you." 

"But that's bullshit. What did they say?"

Where could Arthur begin?

More tears fell from Eames' eyes. He squeezed Arthur's hand. "Don't listen to them. Don't you  _ever_ listen to them, okay? They don't know anything. You make me so happy, Arthur. So very much."

"You love them too. I...I pretend that it doesn't bother me, but I want them to like me. But it's impossible now. I don't know what to do. Your family's wonderful, and they're important to you."

"And so are you, Arthur. Come on. They're family. Family's never know how to not act like bastards. I'll say something to mum and dad, and especially James. Okay?"

"I screwed up."

"How?"

"They wanted me, remember? I screwed up."

Eames sighed. "Well...you were just...awkward back then, but you're not the same person anymore. It's never too late for them, even James."

"You're saying that, but I don't believe you."

"Well you should, darling." He kissed Arthur's hand. "Hell, just call mum asking for a receipt and she'll like you better than Amber, who mum thinks is a terrible cook, even though she's not. You see? They're all nuts."

Arthur smiled a little with him, but he still felt terribly embarrassed. 

"Are you still seeing Wendy?" When Arthur nodded, Eames asked, "Should I go with you? To therapy?"

"You hate my therapist."

"I hate worse what I saw tonight. I should have been more supportive from day-one. I just never had any idea that you suffered like this. It scares me."

"I don't want to scare you. It doesn't happen like this all the time, I swear. You've already got so much to deal with, Eames. It's nothing."

"But there's other things too, right? Stuff you do to restrict yourself. Tell me."

Arthur covered his face and nodded. He took a deep breath, feeling lightheaded. "Yeah."

"Alright, then. I want my baby to be healthy, so...we'll start tackling this together from now on. I mean, you carry me, through my issues. Let me carry you too. Okay?"

Arthur wiped his eyes, nodding again. "Okay."

+

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY APOLOGIES FOR THIS UPDATE BEING SO LATE! I'VE BEEN WORKING ON TWELVE MILLION PROJECTS! D:
> 
> Enjoy! *nervous* 3:

+

 

Arthur woke to the sound of crashing waves and the taste of seawater on his lips. He stared up at the ceiling in the dark, knowing that his alarm was set to scream in a few minutes.

He turned it off, sitting up and grimacing at the soreness in his back from the foldout couch’s awful mattress.

He wasn’t a morning person at all, and if he could he’d damn the world and resume his little warm spot against Eames’ back, but he had things to do.

The infection was back in Eames’ thigh, after what was going on four months of good reports, somehow it had sprung back.

It hadn’t voiced itself until a week ago at Eames’ physical therapy. Since then, the speed of Eames’ progress had slowed to a total halt.

By now, Arthur was used to waking up alone and getting himself ready before his boyfriend. Eames would need help with his bath and using the sink, and would need food right after for his medicine. He’d need help getting dressed and ready for their trip to the doctor’s office and then to more physical therapy. Then home to rest for a while before their couple’s therapy and the veteran support group. Hefting the wheelchair from car trunk or taxi van, in and out, with Eames’ bag here and there, all over the city some days, it seemed. Routine, routine, routine. Work, work, work. Until the weekend, where Arthur’s own tasks began with house cleaning and grocery shopping and then a trip to his own therapist with Eames in tow.

Arthur sighed, feeling his head flood with complaints, but he touched his bare feet to the cold floorboards, more awake now. He stared down at his knees, his _healthy_ knees, and rested both elbows on his thighs and rubbed his face with two hands. He felt incredibly humbled as he walked himself to the bathroom, where he could pee, standing up, and brush his teeth at the same time, privately, easily, the way Eames used to.

+

Arthur would be lying if he said he liked Sundays. At least the other days of the week came with appointments and promises that Eames could keep. Sundays were open, vulnerable to the depression that took hold of Eames like clockwork, every time.

Arthur braced himself and sat on the couch mattress’ edge and shook Eames’ shoulder carefully. “Eames, come on. You have to get up.”

“Why? What’s the point? I’m not going anywhere.”

“We could go to the park, or even just sit up and watch tv?”

“No. I don’t feel like it.”

“Eames, you have to try.” He could feel his impatience getting out of control, but he pushed on, shaking Eames’ shoulder again. “I’ve already gained a whole pound this week and it’s terrifying me. I can’t sleep at night because of it, but _I_ still try. For _you_.”

“Yeah I know, baby, and I’m proud of you, but I’m just tired okay?”

“You said that three hours ago. You already missed your bath _and_ lunch. It’ll wreck your stomach. Eames, you’re on antibiotics. _Come on_.”

Eames shouldered off Arthur’s patting. “Arthur, please, okay? Just let me sleep for a bit.”

“No! If I let you stay in bed again today, there’s no telling if you’ll even get up tomorrow! You need to get out of bed. I’ve already let you sleep too long already.”

Eames ignored him, holding his pillow and staring out the window.

“If you don’t get up, then I won’t eat. Period. I’m not going to try if you won’t.”

“I said I’m tired, Arthur.”

“How? You’ve slept for fourteen hours!”

“You would know if you were here!” Eames shouted, surprising Arthur. “I don’t fucking sleep at night. I close my eyes and have nightmares down here and when I look for you, you’re… When I reach for you, you aren’t here! Do you sneak back upstairs as soon as I nod off now?”

Arthur sat back, feeling like his chest was caving in. He buried his head in his hands and rubbed his face. “No. Jesus…” In truth, he only ran off when Eames’ nightmares came rolling in. He’d lay on the couch’s bed with him, tense, already exhausted but tense and waiting, as if he were tied to a railroad track. The static electricity running through the rails, the vibrations, the trembling rocks, even before the train was close, he just knew when they were coming.

He wasn’t making himself throw up at night anymore, it just happened naturally now. Eames’ yelling and shoving and crying, it did something to Arthur that Arthur couldn’t control or even understand. So he’d spend the night hiding out in the bathroom until Eames’ terror would go quiet again. It was awful.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur toyed Eames’ empty sleeve, wishing he were small enough to fit inside it and hide there forever. He sighed. “Please, get up, Eames. I’ll make you lunch.”

“You know what, Arthur just fuck off. I’m not in the mood, okay?”

Arthur mouth hung open. “Eames!”

Eames groaned, “Go away,” pulling Arthur’s pillow over his head.

Arthur sat back, his eyes prickling. “O-okay. I’ll…go to the grocery store. By myself. Again. No problem.” He rubbed Eames’ back, gripping his shirt before he hurried out of the living room.

+

“Oi, you alright, love?”

Arthur blinked at the row of shelf prices, lost staring at cereal for what must have been long enough for several people to gawk at him.

The cautious woman, with her bright, big scarf and windswept fiery hair and her eyebrows penciled in, winced at him. “Do you need some help, dear?”

“Sorry,” he muttered back.

Arthur didn’t even need cereal, particularly not the multi-colored boxes of sugar and marshmallows. In fact, glancing down at his cart as he hurried to another aisle, he needed nothing that he’d picked up so far. He’d come here for lettuce, milk, light beer for Eames and a bottle of wine for himself, not the five bags of chips and boxes of soda pops, or the bags of chocolate, _or_ the frozen pizza and certainly not the ice cream.

If his guilt wouldn’t outweigh his further embarrassment, he would have just abandoned the full cart in favor of starting over, but instead he put back each thing all in their right places on the shelves, gaining more stares.

He zoned out again, both at the cash register and when the taxi stopped in front of their flat.

He almost wanted to tell the driver to circle the block again, or to take him back to the store so he could walk home, but it was raining now, and his ever constant nagging worry over Eames being on the floor when he came home compelled him to finally pay the driver and leave.

Arthur gripped the grocery bags, his stomach in a tight knot the first second he saw that the couch was empty and the wheelchair gone, but Eames coughed in the bathroom. Arthur breathed, stepping quietly into the kitchen to drop off the bags before he peeked to check in on his boyfriend.

He hovered in the doorway for a moment, trying to shove down his anxiety as he watched Eames position the chair before he reached up for the suspended handle to lift himself to the toilet.

Arthur hated that thing, convinced that it wasn’t sturdy enough for Eames. Eames didn’t need his help, not really, not for two months now, but it was either panicking in silence or raiding the fridge. “I’ll help.”

“No, no, baby,” Eames grunted, “I got it.” He sighed with an irritation that hit Arthur like a slap when Arthur still stepped past the chair and helped to support him. “Thanks.”

“Sorry.” Arthur blushed as he hefted the wheelchair aside to give himself room to sit on the edge of the tub. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands, noticing that his wrists were getting fuller. He sighed. “How are you feeling? Any better?”

Eames took a moment to get his pants off on the seat. He tucked his penis between his legs and frowned at Arthur. “You’re staying?”

“Do you—Yes? I—Yeah, is that… You want me to go?”

“You know I can’t piss with someone staring me in the face, love.”

“You peed on me in the shower once!”

“I was drunk! And you broke up with me for it, remember?” Eames chuckled, surprising himself as he shook his head.

“Well, you know the therapist said that we should spend some more one-on-one time together, so I thought…” He shrugged.

Eames chuckled again. “Not _here_ , you silly poof.”

It was meant in teasing, but it still felt to Arthur like getting hit twice today and it wasn’t even on purpose.

Eames fidgeted, still smiling as he furrowed his brow. “I really have to pee, babe.”

“Okay, I’ll—” He dusted off his pants and maneuvered around the chair. “Okay.”

“Arthur?”

“Hm? Oh.” He moved the chair back. “Sorry. I don’t know why I keep forgetting this thing. You look better.” He waved his hands in further apology. “I’ll go fix you something to eat.”

“Thank you, baby.”

“Sure.”

He tucked the sheets in on the couch and folded the bed first.

Standing there, he took a moment to hug Eames’ pillow to his face and chest, breathing deep and grounding himself before he put it away with his in the closet.

In the kitchen, he washed an apple for himself and Eames, distracted. Listening out for any sign of distress from the bathroom, the paring knife caught his thumb.

In surprise, he dropped the knife and apple in the sink. He glared at the blood quickly dripping from his shaking hand and sighed at it, scowling as it burned.

“You alright, baby?” Eames frowned at it too, quick to turn the chair around to collect the bandages from the bathroom.

He was cutting a short length of it with his teeth when he returned. “Baby?”

Arthur blinked, holding his hand away from Eames when he reached for it. “It’s fine.” He quickly cleaned and dried it, his eyes burning when more blood rose to the surface. “Just a little slip.”

“ _Arthur._ ”

It got his attention, that tone. One he hadn’t heard in a long time. It warmed his ears and sent a tingle of pleasure down his spine. 

“Hold this end,” Eames said, careful as he tended to it before he took his end and began to wrap it tightly over the cotton ball. “There.”

Arthur watched Eames take his hand and kiss the bandage over and over, as if those kisses held healing power.

On some level, perhaps it did. It made him smile, at least. “Thanks.” It was short-lived. Arthur studied his hand in Eames’, trying to find his words. “Eames?” He took a breath. “We need to start talking about… Zhang said that she… has nightmares sometimes too, and I think that maybe—”

Eames sat back, his grip on Arthur’s hand loosening. “No.”

Arthur squeezed his fingers, not ready to let go. “If she’s too familiar, what about somebody in the group? You could talk to Wendy?”

Eames let go to scratch his stubble.

“And,” Arthur quickly continued, his voice breathy as he stood a little closer, his knee touching Eames’ chair, “I’ll do better. I can do better.”

Judging from the frown on Eames’ face, he had to chase for Arthur’s meaning for a while before he understood. “Oh…” He dropped his eyes, frowning harder as he wrapped his arm over his chest and tucked his hand under the knot Arthur’d tied in his opposite sleeve, fiddling with it. “I snapped at you earlier.”

“No, no, no, don’t—I understand. You were right.”

“Arthur—”

Arthur righted Eames’ shirt, smoothing out the shoulders. “I don’t have the right to worry about you when I… when I’m not there when you need me.”

Eames hooked his finger in Arthur’s belt loop, tugging gently. “Baby, listen.”

“No. I know what you’re going to say. Just give me a chance. I can ask questions at the support group myself and figure out how to help you sleep at night. I can do that. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Arthur.” Eames squeezed his hip, his eyes following his hand as he rubbed Arthur’s thigh. He sighed, his expression pained but gentling. “I want you to do something for me right now.”

Arthur braced himself, convinced that Eames was at last ordering him to leave. “What?”

But Eames took his hand, his thumb stroking the back of it. “Go fetch your pillow, darling, head upstairs, and take a nap. Okay? Go up there and remember why we bought that bed and remind yourself of why you ought to be up there instead of down here at night. Go. If I need anything, you know I’ll call you.”

“Eames—”

“Please. Go and take a nap for me. Don’t be upset.”

Arthur’s hands rose defensively. “I’m not.”

Eames nodded, swallowing. “Good. Go rest.”

“I will!” Arthur let his anger take him to the closet to grab his pillow. He stomped up the stairs and threw it on the bed.

He took a deep breath, not used to the silence and space. It bothered him, being up here alone now, as if Eames had never come home. He might as well haven’t.

He didn’t know how long he sat on its edge staring at the floor. It was the only normal thing in that room. Without Eames’ big presence, everything felt…huge. The half-empty wardrobe, the empty dresser drawers, the bed, even his shadow.

His hands smoothed out his pants legs once he removed them, intent to fold and place them somewhere but they crumpled to the floor over his feet before he toed off his socks. His sweater soon joined the pile. Glancing at the bedside table, it was covered in faint dust, the little specks clinging to his Invicta watch he never wore anymore and all the phone and iPad chargers cluttering his side.

He sank back and rolled onto his stomach to inspect the space where Eames had kept his journal and his little cheap phone on the opposite side of the bed. Arthur knew he wouldn’t sleep up here. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. He told himself that over and over as he brushed the dust from all the little photos of him and Eames from some far away lifetime where Eames was big and strong and took up space and Arthur didn’t, back when things were easy and simple. It didn’t make any sense. Why would he want to be here and not downstairs? Hadn’t they lost enough time away from each other, and if Eames was hurt or on the floor again, without help…

The urge to go back downstairs was so intense, it brought tears to his eyes, the last straw in the heavy, crushing pile on his back.

But under the covers, where it was cool and the crisp sheets tickled his skin, where he could stretch out his arms and legs without the fear of touching one of Eames’ hurts or the empty spaces that he pretended weren’t there, and how the bed seemed to wrap arms around him and cuddle him close…

He drifted, as if weightless and slept longer and deeper than he had since they’d come back to London, dreaming again of the beach and piggybacking on Eames’ broad, tanned shoulders through crystal blue waters.

+ 

 


	7. Chapter 7

+

 

Eames whistled, a little drunk, down the corridor of the old, stale library until he found the location of his assignment.

He had to squat low and reposition his utility belt to get comfortable for a good look under the stopped sink in the washroom. He glared. Even a fancy school like Oxford was still filled with brats who clogged the drains with cigarette butts and stuck gum on the pipes.

Not that he was overly upset. This wasn’t the worst sink he had to maintenance, certainly not the worst assignment either if the state of the urinals was any sign. He simply didn’t love his plumbing gig, especially today.

Tinkering with the sink stopper, he thought back on the conversation he’d had with the army recruiter. Good pay, good benefits, and a chance to travel the world in close quarters with more than a few potential boyfriends. _Not_  fixing toilets. He could have a gig that could put him in a nice place like his older brother had. Even a car that didn’t screech like a pterodactyl caught in a blender when he drove it uphill.

He yawned behind his hand once all the paper towels and junk had been extracted from the pipe. One down, another to go, but not before taking a much-needed leak first. He was nearly done when he was startled by the door bursting open.

A hot, little skinny thing of a young man walked around the corner, headed for one of the stalls, but he paused, seeing Eames. He sighed, as if Eames' lonely presence somehow inconvenienced him. He looked ready to turn heel and head right back out the door, but his eyes boldly traveled the length of Eames, stopping very pointedly at his cock. 

Eames snorted, not knowing if he ought to be further offended or turned on. “See something you like?”

The boy tilted his head, adjusting his glasses. “Do plumbers usually carry around that kind of tool or are you special?” He asked, with nothing British about the way he tossed those hard, mangled syllables at Eames.

Eames’ brow rose. For a moment he was speechless. “Well, well, then.” He cleared his throat, feeling a wave of heat travel down. “That’s one hell of a compliment, sweetheart. Thank you.”

The pretty boy blinked, as if coming back to himself. He held out his hands as he blushed, looking away. “Sorry! Shit, that was rude. Um. It's been a long day. I’ll go find another bathroom.”

Eames said nothing only long enough to see the type of ass the man had in those tight trousers. “You sure? This is a very nice one and I’m willing to share.”

The boy turned back around, leaning his hip on the sink. He hesitated, his brow wrinkling cutely as he slowly thought over something, forming his response with intent. “Depends."

"On?"

"Are you naturally overly generous with that hospitality or is it just for me?”

Eames had to take a moment and be sure that he understood the implication, but it was impossible not to with that pointed gaze. He'd been gunning for a phone number, maybe possibly a date, or even just flirting, whether successful or not. _Not_ , clearly, what this boy had in mind. Random hookups just weren’t a thing in Eames’ world, but he wasn't about to be the one visibly out of his element. “Oh. When you put it that way, no. Just you, love, but I have to wonder as well. Are you picky at all with your men or are _you_ full of charity?”

The man licked his lips in answer at first, coming forward and dropping his satchel in a sink along the way. "Don't be stupid."

Eames’ brow rose higher when he was kissed deeply, tasting a hint of spirits on that tongue. He grinned, pulling back. “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who started the weekend early. Granted, it's Thursday—”

The boy moaned against his lips. “Stop talking.”

“Excuse me?” Eames’ frown was covered by a hand and a quick kiss surely meant to condescend.

But he didn't have a chance to be offended. His new friend was already far ahead of him. Eames couldn’t believe his eyes when the younger man stripped him of his utility belt and dropped to his knees on it like a makeshift cushion.

His hands were so nimble and soothe, making quick work of Eames’ belt until he turned his nose up at a dark smudge on his hand from the old, fraying leather. “What the hell is this?”

“Thought I'd had _more_  car trouble than normal, but turns out it was just that the oil needed changing.” Eames reached for his hair, wanting its softness under his hands—

“Don’t touch me,” the boy ordered in a breathy voice, recoiling even as he stroked Eames in his grip. “Just give me this.”

“My goodness! Aren’t you a greedy, awful thing?”

And he was, by the smirk he gave Eames right before he stuffed him in his mouth and let his eyes flutter closed. Eames had never seen anything like it, had never felt anything like it either. He stood in amazement still when his balls disappeared in that mouth right along with his length. "And here I was thinking that _I_  had a big mouth."

The little moan he gave Eames was equally surprised. “You taste good. I like that.”

“I see!"

He got a handful of Eames' balls and rolled them the first time his throat squeezed around his crown. He pulled back, panting as he tried and failed to get both balls in his mouth again but damned if he didn't try it a third time and succeed. He resurfaced for air once more and grinned up at Eames, open and much more cordial now as he weighed Eames balls in one slender hand. "I like these too." 

Eames had to hold his breath to keep in a very compromising sound, choking when his cock disappeared past those lips again. "You are one very special young man." That earned him a happy moan that sent shivers up his spine. "Damn, boy. You’ve got a man around somewhere, don’t you?” He moaned when Arthur answered with a whine and a nod around his cock. He reached for Arthur’s chin, his thumb stroking a spot of dirt over his cheek without a single complaint this time around. “Yes, sir, I bet you do. No boy sucks cock this fucking good without a man to keep you in good practice…”

Arthur released him, licking the rope of spit from his lips without thought. “It’s Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Eames repeated in a doting rumble, making Arthur smile. “Arthur, with such a pretty face.” He stroked Arthur’s dimples, humming with content as Arthur resumed his sucking. He took Eames in slowly, savoring every inch like a dream. “I bet you’ve got a possessive man looking for you right now, Arthur, wondering where his bad boy’s wandered off to.”

Arthur shook his head, looking up at Eames from under his lashes. “He’s just another boy who spends more time with his frat than he does with me, um…”

“Eames, love.”

“ _Eames_? That’s funny.” Arthur smiled before he nipped at his length. “My boyfriend’s not very big, Eames.”

“No?” Eames could have surely been fooled. "Well, that's a waste when your gag reflex is...gone."

"That's what I told him."

Eames would have balked if Arthur wasn't sucking on his sweet spot under his crown. He caught his breath, although barely. "You did?"

Arthur nodded against his thigh. “He bores me.”

“Well, that certainly won’t do, baby,” he purred, combing his hand through Arthur’s silky hair when he returned to his deep-throated sucking. Eames shook his head, knowing Arthur’s words and his posture and his teasing eyes were all a trap. This boy was trouble in a pair of glasses. Eames didn’t know what exactly that trouble was, but he was game for it nonetheless. “You need a good man to keep you sated.” He was rewarded with another nod and more moaning around his length. He smirked, cheeky, in total disbelief of his luck. “Oh, if you were mine…”

Arthur paused again, his smirk the rudest, cruelest, most dirty thing Eames had ever seen. “I could be.” Said in the voice of an angel. He pressed his lips to the underside of Eames’ crown and sucked that spot hard until Eames groaned and shivered. He licked his lips, his eyes still trapping Eames’ gaze, and took him down his throat slowly, his nose pressed to Eames thick bed of curls and his tongue reaching out to tickle past his base with impossible skill.

Eames had to grip the sink as he came, groaning, “I fucking love this college, _and_ my job.”

Arthur gasped for air after swallowing every drop of him. He wiped his mouth on his hand, cocky as he beamed. “And my mouth?” he asked hoarsely.

Eames took Arthur’s lovely jaw in hand and bent down to kiss those lips. “ _And_ your perfect mouth.”

Arthur eyed Eames’ cock with a critical eye, then. “Good.” He rose gracefully and with purpose like he owned Eames, something Eames had no problem at all with when Arthur told him, “My boyfriend’s throwing a party tonight that I won’t be attending anymore. I have a class I’m late for now, but…later…” He smirked, waving his hand flippantly and he eyed his phone. “I might have a sink for you to fix at my place or whatever.”

“ _Or whatever_?”

Arthur took the liberty of tucking Eames back in his pants himself, lovingly stroking and tending it with greedy hands. “Is that a problem?”

Arthur’s fine brow rose, and it was then that Eames knew he’d never have the strength to say no to this boy one day in his life.

+

 

Eames glared at the puddle on the floor under the kitchen sink.

It had all started when he’d refused to nap, even though he was as tired as Arthur looked, poor thing. He’d opted for catching up on a few tasks instead of waking up in a sweat thinking he’d been blown up again. If he had a choice to never sleep and never fear dreams ever again, he’d take that in a heartbeat and he was willing to try it at this point. However, over any attempt to improve his penmanship with his left hand or even do the home exercises his physical therapist showed him, there had been the unmistakable sound of dripping water.

It was a sneaky thing. If his hearing weren’t so up the creek, he wouldn’t have had to ‘scoot’ all over the downstairs of the flat to figure out where the dripping was, whether it was coming from the ceiling or the bathroom or his prescriptions misfiring—not that he wasn’t having a blast with his new chair. Arthur would never let him do half the crazy things he did with it if he were awake, but he was upstairs taking his weekly nap.

No laptop cord or unnecessary ‘conceptual art’ print rug could stop him now, although the puddle on the floor had. He’d passed the kitchen sink twice in his search, staring for minutes at a time at the faucet when all along, it was a pipe issue.

An easily fixable pipe issue, but not for a right-handed man with no right hand. Eames scowled at the singular drop dangling from the cabinet under the sink, grunting with utter offense and shaking his head as he watched it finally fall, plopping and riffling through the puddle.

“Son of a cu—Hm, okay,” he muttered, looking down at himself and nodding over at the draw in the countertop where they keep their quick fix tools, formulating a plan.

It was more weight than he was supposed to lift, quietly easing the whole drawer out of the counter and into his lap, but he lifted himself pretty well around all the time. It _hurt_ , but it would hurt more for him to rush and send the drawer and all its content crashing to the floor and send Arthur into an early grave with the noise. Only now, with the drawer in his lap, both he and it would have to figure out a safe and quiet way to the floor.  

He wiggled out of his shirt and wrapped in around the drawer, his shoulder complaining when he lowered it down.

Now for the hard part. In theory, he could get down the way he got into the bathtub, but there were things to hold onto in there that didn’t exist in their overly large and outlandishly spartan kitchen. Either he’d slowly lower himself and magically not land on a sore spot _or_ he could crash into the drawer and make brand new sore spots.

But he reached for the empty drawer and used it to push the tools further and away and paused before he flipped the drawer over and set it on the floor like a stepstool, grinning at his own brilliance.

He still had to be careful. By the time he’d maneuvered himself on his back, he was sweating and his shoulder was aching. He’d bumped his bad shoulder twice now, but before he knew it, his thighs were touching the drawer.

Gripping the chair he braced himself and took the final scoot. He landed safely, shocking himself. “Now, how the hell am I going to get off the bloody drawer?” It was back to shuffling on his back again until he could push up off of the floor and get the cabinet doors open.

At once, he realized that he’d need a towel for collecting the spilt water. It would have to wait. “Sorry, Arthur.” Likewise, the sun had nearly set and there were no lights on. Eames had no choice but to laugh at himself as he leaned against the cabinet door with the flashlight in his mouth, ready to get to work.

Eames startled, frowning at the sound of thunder rumbling down the stairs.

“I overslept again! Eames?”

He couldn’t see Arthur, but he could sense the apprehension rolling off of the man as those footfalls quieted.

The lights over the kitchen’s island turned on. Arthur rounded the corner, his eyes nearly popping out of his head when he saw Eames sitting on the floor. “Oh my God!”

Eames braced himself. “Arthur, babe, relax.”

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? You’re handyman’s fixing this leak here.”

Arthur stared wide-eyed, looking utterly disheveled. It was clear that he’d rushed to dress himself and had failed from the way the baggy shirt he wore was backwards and half tucked into his tiny underwear. Where the rest of his clothes were, Eames didn’t care. Just the fact that Arthur, _his_ Arthur, had been upstairs in their bed, sleeping nude when he hadn’t seen him naked in months…

Arthur sighed dramatically. “I nearly had a heart attack, you know that?” He huffed, snatching off the one sock he’d managed to get his foot into and turned his back, hiding a little, when he put his arms in his shirt and awkwardly turned it the right way around. Shy, almost embarrassed, as if any glimpsed of him with one single, extra gram of meat on him would somehow convince Eames to leave him for one of the skinny models he had lined up somewhere. It was devastating.

Arthur frowned, worrying his collar before he put his hands on his hips.

Eames knew that look too well. “Arthur, _no_. I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you went to the bathroom, Eames? How do you know you’re even supposed to be down here doing any of this? What if you’d hurt yourself? What if you’d been down here for hours? Oh my god, _have_ you been on the floor for hours?” He hurried forward, determined, his hands reached out.

“Arthur, stop! I’m not a bloody baby. Let go of me.” He popped Arthur’s knee with the wrench and sighed at him when he backed off. “I’m fine, babe. You can help me up when I’m finished.”

“Why can’t we just—”

Eames knew it. Arthur was going to demand they call a plumber and if he did, if those words came out of Arthur’s mouth, Eames really wouldn't be sure on how to call that man his boyfriend anymore.

The look on Arthur’s face was pained when he spoke. “Eames, what if…” He shuffled his feet, sighing again. “I mean, you could really hurt your shoulder leaning on it like that and you’re ruining your pants in that puddle...” He tossed up his arms suddenly. “How can I help?” He sat on the floor with him, on his knees, as he looked warily at the pipe, no doubt seeing every speck of dust on it and the thin sheen of water around his cleaning supplies. Arthur sighed like a deflating balloon. “It’ll be fun.”

Eames stared at him, convinced that Arthur was planning on nabbing him again the second he put the wrench down. “You see where the water’s dripping?”

“Yeah! All over fucking everything—”

“No, no, babe, where is it coming from? Where does it start?”

Arthur frowned at it. He took the flashlight and inspected it critically. “Oh, one of those little pipes is…cracked? Shit.”

“No, no, no, just a bit too loose. Those are pressurized hoses, love. See the valves.” Eames couldn’t help but smile as he locked his gaze on Arthur’s serious expression. “Relax. We don’t have to run for high ground or a boat just yet.”

It was instinctual to reach for Arthur, to lean on him. Arthur startled a little when Eames rested his hand on his hip. Eames smiled deeper, seeing a blush blossom on Arthur’s face as Arthur sat a little closer.

“So what’s the game plan?”

“Get that other wrench so we can tighten this bad boy. Put yours on the nut,” Eames instructed, pointing his chin at it and glaring when Arthur snickered.

Arthur had to elbow the bottles of cleaner aside and leaned begrudgingly into the cabinet, ducking his head, the flashlight tucked between his cheek and shoulder. He held the wrench with both hands as if it would fly away from him at any second.

Eames admired him for a moment, the way Arthur’s shirt draped over his bare, folded legs and the dusting of hair on his calves. He was beautiful. He'd missed him.

Arthur must felt Eames' stare. “What? Don’t tell me I’m doing something wrong already. This can’t be _that_ hard. Eames?”

“Hush,” Eames whispered, leaning on his hand to peck a kiss on Arthur’s shoulder. He picked up his wrench again and leaned on Arthur’s side to get his around the valve. “Now hold yours steady for me.”

Arthur released his right hand to cover Eames’ left, giving him support. “Now what?”

Eames swallowed at the gesture, feeling strangely breathless. His chest tight, he smiled to himself, and slipped his hand from under Arthur’s.

“What? I was just—”

“I know, darling. Turn the compression one, slow and deliberate.”

Arthur glanced at him, worried. “You’re not going to do it with me?”

“You don’t need me.”

“The hell I don’t! Look at how bulky and ridiculous this stuff is under here!”

Eames chuckled, hushing him. “Try it first. Here.” He touched Arthur’s wrist, guiding his grip to turn the wrench counterclockwise until Arthur furrowed his brow and put force in it, straining but hell bent on getting it to work.

Eames let his hand drift up Arthur’s arm, surprised and delighted by the sturdy muscles he found along his fingers’ trailing.

“Um, Eames? Is _this_ supposed to happen?”

Eames blinked. “Fuck! Turn it the other way! Quickly, quickly!” He covered his mouth, only successful in holding back his laugh for a single second. “Oh, baby boy, I’m sorry! It’s been a while, okay? It’s fine.”

“Yeah, well…” Arthur dropped the wrenches on the floor like they were squashed bugs as he surveyed the state of his soaked shirt. He glared, groaning when he showed Eames the water and dust on his palms and what could only be assumed was grease or some old glue from somewhere in the depths of the sink cabinet and tools. “Just like I said. Fun.”

Eames tried again to stifle his laugh with no success. “It certainly was fun for me.”

“I bet!”

“Oh, darling.”

Arthur snorted, turning away and heading for the fridge, even as his shoulders shook with his own laughing. He returned with an opened beer and a glass of wine smudged with his dirty handprints.

“I hate you, Eames,” he snickered, shaking his head as he cleaned his hands on Eames’ shirt. He held up the glass. “Never let a day go by that you ever forget that.”

Eames took a big sip before he toasted him. “I love you, too, darling. And I really, really have to pee, so can we…?”

“Yup!" Arthur scrambled to his feet with the can and glass. "I’m on it.”

+ 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO I KNOW I SAID THAT THIS WAS GOING TO END LIKE, TWO CHAPTERS AGO, but this ain't over with yet. I need at least one more, so stay posted!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE! I PROMISE IT'LL BE THE FINAL CHAPTER AFTER THE ONE COMING UP! XD

+

 

Arthur was born for a trust fund the size of an estate in the Hamptons and an oilrig somewhere out in California. Just one heir, specifically a boy, and his great-grandfather had made Arthur’s father a fortune the day Arthur was born. Just like that, Arthur had served his purpose.

He had had three nannies growing up. The first, pitying him for the parents he had, had cared for him and loved him with food and candy. She’d been quickly fired. The next was the same. Any problem could be fixed with ice cream and a trip to his favorite fast food places for the best French fries or smoothies. He’d loved her and she’d loved him back in that way, cushioning him with cake and tending his loneliness and his sadness with treats. His parents fired her as well for it. The third was a boarding school, where the boys were as merciless as his parents were when it came to Arthur’s weight.

So he’d ‘fixed’ it, and got careful, and overnight, it seemed, he’d made a fortune of his own. Boys and cliques and a life where, if he just remained careful and did what he was supposed to, the attention he’d won from both his friends _and_ his family, would be unending. He could be happy. Really and truly happy the way that all skinny people were, just like his parents had stressed his entire life.

But he was eating again, ‘like a normal person,’ as Eames liked to brag, and he was happy with Eames. Things were better, good, even though he wasn’t counting calories. That was bad. He lay awake early mornings going through a list of any number of possible things that he’d be punished for, for stopping. His parents could be dead in a tomb in New York right now, and yet their reach still held him in their grip. Even if they lacked all power to take more from him for being happy again, _something_ could. The first time he'd lapsed, his taxi had been turned into origami by a drunk driver with him and the taxi driver still in it. The last time, Eames had been nearly killed. It was only a matter of time now.

It happened, although again, not to him, but Eames.

Arthur sat fidgeting in his chair beside him in the doctor’s office after his physical therapy and check up.

It felt like a small eternity passed as they waited for the doctor to finally look up from his notes and all the x-rays and test results and more files. He sat back with a sigh, looking at Eames. That wasn’t good.

“Well, George, I’m afraid I have good news _and_ bad.”

“I’m ready for it, doc,” Eames said, eagerly reaching for Arthur’s hand.

The doctor rubbed his forehead. “The infection is gone. The burn scars and the skin graphs looks much, much healthier. Aloe was a good choice.”

“Yeah, that was Arthur’s idea,” Eames told him, squeezing Arthur’s hand.

The doctor’s smile wasn’t so genuine. “George, I have to be blunt. A prosthetic for that arm may not ever have much functionality. Your right leg as well is still having more than a few issues in the tests, compared to the left.”

“Ah.” Eames nodded slowly, taking it in visibly better than Arthur was. He was screaming inside as Eames took a breath. “I see.”

“Now with crutches, perhaps, you may have more support, but…”

“I’d still need a way to hold that right crutch, yeah, I understand.”

The doctor leaned forward, frowning. “However, as I say every time, George, things change, people improve in unexpected ways… So, we’ll continue with the therapy and see what happens.” He glanced at Arthur.

Arthur shifted in his chair, a little nervous. “Eames, what if…we still brought the prosthetics home with us?”

“He’s right, George. They're yours. No need to leave them here.”

Eames didn’t look overly thrilled. “I’m not comfortable with them. It feels…weird to have them on _here_.”

“Keeping them on would help you grow more accustomed to them, George.”

Arthur rubbed Eames’ arm. “Yeah! What do you say?”

Eames rubbed his neck, holding back a grimace Arthur knew all too well now. “No. Not yet.”

 

Arthur leaned into the taxi to help Eames with his seatbelt as it rained. “I’m sorry, Eames.”

Eames’ voice was rough when he shook his head and spoke, his gaze turned to the road. “Not your fault, babe.”

Arthur was soaked by the time he’d hefted the chair into the trunk.

He slammed the trunk hood shut, pressing his palms to its surface as he took a moment to breathe and let Eames have his space. Already he could see Eames through the glass, his face buried in his hoodie. And there was nothing Arthur could do for him. This wasn't his area of expertise. Eames soothed, Eames comforted, Eames kissed hurts and knew all the right words... Arthur didn't. 

Eames was still hiding his tears when Arthur got in and gave the driver instructions. He hid in his phone, scrolling aimlessly as Eames drowned in his feelings, alone. 

The driver’s music was subdued under the rain and the scrape of the windshield's wipers, but Eames' soft sobs were loud in Arthur's ears. 

His hand hovered over his phone screen. He’d planned to text his therapist that they were on their way. He needed her. He needed her to help him recharge for another week of eating and more bad news. He needed...

He texted her to cancel instead, and gave the driver a different address. It felt equally good and terrifying all the same. "Wendy can see us next week." He took a breath and counted down the minutes but when the world didn't end, he tucked his phone back in his jacket and moved closer, reaching for Eames.

He was convinced that Eames would brush him off, but he pressed his hand to his arm nonetheless, awkward, but as naturally as he could, remembering all the strength in those lean muscles. One day this arm would be strong again. There was no other option for it, for Eames in total, really. He would get better. If not today then someday. "Let’s go home and relax today. All this rain has me feeling like wet cat. We can order pizza, huh, Eames? Okay?”

Eames seemed to swell in his hoodie as he took a deep breath in his collar, still hiding, but he nodded and let Arthur pull him closer still. His weigh sank against Arthur's side as he wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist and held his jacket in a tight grip. 

"Okay." Arthur mirrored his response though Eames couldn’t see it. He kissed Eames' wet and unruly hair and rubbed his back until they made it home.

+

Eames sat on the couch with his eyes closed, soaked from the rain. He was hurting, all over, in and out, but the pitter-patter at least relaxed him a tiny bit, the way it used to on lazy days where he and Arthur cuddled on this couch and drifted.

He tried using his breathing exercises to reroute his thoughts before they could dig any further into his sadness. He was exhausted, deep down, but there was no point in leaving his beating from the physical therapist to whatever wished to attack him in his sleep so he opened his eyes to the ceiling, still listening to the rain continue to fall, and to Arthur’s struggling.

Eames peeked over at him. Arthur was quietly huffing and puffing as he lifted the manual wheelchair they’d used outside into a folded position. He’d dried it from top to bottom with a towel, making sure it was spotless before carrying it to it’s spot next to the backdoor—even as he himself still dripped water from all his back and forth trips to get Eames in the house.

He whistled when he felt Eames’ stare, smiling softly and out of breath, forever putting on a face. “That was fun. Want to call your folks now?”

Eames shook his head against the back of the couch. “No point if the news is the same.” He furrowed his brow at Arthur, who was now precariously shuffling a towel on the floor over the trails of water he'd made. “You’ll slip, Arthur. It’s just water, babe. Why don’t you take a break and get dried off yourself?”

“In a bit. I want to finish this before you get cleaned up.”

“Arthur, you’ll catch a cold or something. Stop.”

Arthur did stop. “Shit, you’re right," he sighed, looking tired. He rubbed his forehead. "The floor’s nothing if you get sick on the couch in wet clothes. Your family would love that too, if I let that happen.”

Eames tried to hold in his irritation, but he was too tired himself. At any rate, Arthur’d gotten too good at reading his cues.

He hovered near the couch, his hands on his hips. “What?”

Eames took a breath. “You look like you went into a pool with all your clothes on.”

“And _you’re_ on a million medications. You just ended that antibiotic. Let me handle you first. I’ll be fine!”

Eames swatted at Arthur’s hand. “Arthur—”

Arthur swatted back. “ _George_ —”

He caught Arthur’s hand, pulling him down on top of him. They both grunted and froze. Arthur quickly tried lift his weight off, but Eames wrapped in arm around him, keeping them flush together.

Arthur moaned in frustration, dodging Eames’ lips when they sought out his. “Eames, we’re ruining the couch.”

“Good. I want that, Arthur. Give me that.”

"You're hurting. It's been a very long day for you."

"It's been a very long _year_ , Arthur. Why are we bickering over water? Just let me kiss you. That's all I want."

Arthur melted into his kiss but only for a moment. He pressed his forehead to Eames’, his eyes still closed as he tucked his knees closed to Eames’ thighs, straddling him. He held Eames’ face, his thumbs brushing over his stubble. 

He attacked Eames’ lips at once, then. In the silence and the muffled rain, Arthur’s hunger felt audible. Forgetting the wet clothes, forgetting Eames’ sore places, he sank further against him, his arms circling his neck and blossomed with a sigh past Eames’ lips.

Eames held him, easy. And maybe it was the time that had passed, and the distance they’d been living with like two men divided by an ocean, or maybe it was just the shock of remembering just how good the awkward boy was at kissing him. Only, memories surfaced with that kiss, vivid, _good_ memories that had Eames humming with a contentment he wasn’t used to anymore.

His head fell back, cradled in Arthur’s hands until they drifted down. He blinked up at Arthur as his hoodie and shirt were hiked up his chest. “Arthur?”

Beyond the tears lining Arthur’s eyes, a smoldering fire grew. He raked his nails over scars and burns, biting his lip. “I have my wants too.” He reached for the drawstring on Eames’ track pants.

Eames swallowed, nervous now. “Oh, baby, I know, but… I’m not sure if…” But Arthur was already kissing over chest, shifting to off the couch, Eames’ soft length in-hand. 

He circled his tongue in Eames’ foreskin, tickling his head. Even still soft, he took Eames' length in his mouth with a hunger he never even had for food.

Eames moaned, his hand in Arthur’s hair. He could feel his heart beating out of his chest, his body warming, feverish. “Fuck, that feels good…but, I’m warning you now, my medications aren’t going to allow my cock to do what we want it to, so… if nothing happens, it’s the drugs.”

“Well,” Arthur panted, stroking and sucking Eames’ foreskin again, “at least I’ll be able to do that thing you like without unhinging my jaw.”

That tickled Eames, remembering the last time Arthur had fit his length and balls in his mouth at the same time, and had spent the rest of the day massaging his chin. “It doesn’t quite count if I’m soft, though.”

Arthur snorted, glancing up at him. “This is still a lot.”

His breath hitched, watching Arthur succeed. “I’m very proud of you, darling.”

Arthur’s smile was smug before he swallowed him again, his nose pressed in his hair. He gagged only a for a heartbeat before he used his hands to cup Eames' balls, tugging on them as he bobbed.

Eames' eyes fluttering closed. "Oh Jesus Christ, Arthur, I missed this."

Arthur hummed and pulled back slowly, making his lips smack at the weeping crown. “What’s this I see?”

“That, baby, is what we like to call an erection. Your Eamesie is very,  _very_  proud now.”

Arthur bobbed his head and took him fully in his mouth again when Eames grew a little soft. The second he tasted precome, he moved to pull Eames’ pants completely off.

Eames tried to sink lower on the couch, intending to help the process, but he couldn't get his feet to work. His heart stopped. “Arthur, don’t!” Without thinking he grabbed Arthur's wrist. 

However much time had past between closing his eyes to blink and opening them, he didn't know, but he looked at Arthur, he was pale, his wrist caught in a twisting grip that would have broke it were Eames any stronger. "Oh my God, Arthur, I'm sorry!"

Arthur froze until he was let go. He massaged his wrist, his shoulders sinking, his expression damning Eames with its fear. “Eames, did you... Was that—"

"I'm so sorry, Arthur, I don't want—"

"I’m sorry. I forgot—”

“It's not your fault. It’s fine. Just…" Eames begun to right his clothes, feeling numb all over, but he didn't know why. 

Arthur hurried to help fix him back in his pants and got to his feet quickly, stepping away. He wiped his eyes and brushed his curling hair back. "I'll go get the bath ready."

“Arthur, wait.” He reached out for him, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Arthur paused, nonetheless, turning to face him. He shook out of his coat, looking pained. “Since when did you become so body shy? Is it—is it me? Did _touching_ you trigger you into something?”

“No, of course it's not you.” Eames pushed himself to sit up, searching for his words, but they refused to let go of where they'd barricaded themselves. He wasn’t used to being so… scared, so utterly and completely at the mercy of his feelings, feelings he couldn't even push himself to label, but he had to now. He could pretend he was fine, lie to himself but never Arthur, who was still holding his red wrist as if Eames had shattered it in his episode. It terrified Eames more than anything. “I miss you… I miss _us_ , and I want you, you know I do, but…” He balled his fist. “It’s easy, different, when I’m _not_ doing… certain things. It’s easier… to look at myself then.”

“ _Oh_.” Arthur’s brow rose. He stepped closer, awkwardly. “Well,” he drawled, scrunching his face, “you didn’t see me quick to divest either.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and sighed. “I get it. But we can't avoid it forever.”

“How you _always_ manage to soak your shirt helping me out of the tub, and the knots you tie in my clothes, are cute, and thoughtful, and hearing you grunt lifting the chair out of the cab trunks, it reminds me of more lust-filled times, and I can go back and think about them, but...” He shrugged his better shoulder. "It’s just… I undress, and all of those coverings come off and what's underneath becomes…  _real_ , you know? 

“Yeah. I’ve been juggling that my whole life.”

Eames' heart hurt. His voice trembled. “But you’re gorgeous, Arthur.”

Arthur slowly frowned. “You honestly think that… you _aren’t_? Eames, come on.”

“It is irrational? Not to find myself overly attractive anymore?”

“Yeah! It is! You’re _my guy_. I have high standards. The _highest_ standards.”

“ _No_. I’m twenty-five percent of your guy.”

"That's not true."

"Well, you and my brain seemed to be on a different frequency than my body, seeing as how my limbs are actually gone."

Arthur stuttered for a moment and cleared his throat, looking away. He shook his head. “Eames, I know what... what happened. Your mom's message on my phone, she told me. You're a hero. You almost died trying to save the lives of your crew from—”

“And I ended up with most of my life left behind in the sand, okay! It doesn't matter how I got here! What does is that this is what's left of me. I'm a shell. My dreams used to be filled with _you_! Now all I see is my _blood_ and my bones and the bodies!”

Arthur held up his hands reflexively, his eyes shutting, as if to stop the image from entering his mind. “Eames—”

“Then when I’m awake, I can’t hug you, I can’t walk with you, I can’t be any of the guy I was and I feel that _enough_ already, every single time I move, and after today?" He scoffed, hurting with the force to not rip his hair out and scream at Arthur for not understanding. He waved it off, feeling a headache coming on. "Look, your therapy is helping you with your thing, but mine can't bring me back, Arthur." His eyes burned. "Screw therapy. I’m not going back.”

“Eames!”

“Nothing’s going to change for me, Arthur. This is it.” His voiced cracked, as if he’d physically struck himself in the chest with the thought. “This is everything… My life.”

Arthur’s panting filled the silence that followed. He rubbed his hands through his hair, shuffling forward. He straddled Eames again, carefully, and wrapped his arms around his neck, his lips pressed to Eames’ worried brow. Eames could feel Arthur’s chest expand as he breathed deep around him and sighed. “It’s not over.”

Eames could have pushed Arthur away and fought it, but he hid his tears, burying his face in Arthur’s shirt. “I'm sorry, babe. But I’m so tired.” He hated it, being so out of control, but he couldn’t keep it in, even as he tried to turn his face away when Arthur wiped his eyes for him.

“I hear you, Eames.”

“No, you don’t. It’s over.”

“It’s not over. I know you’re tired. You're discouraged, but you have to keep going. I'm tired too."

"Go take your nap."

"Take it _with_ me," he urged, his voice soft. "We can try to get you a good sleep and then this evening we’re going to double—triple up on your exercises. _Or_ we can just lie down and kiss more and in the morning we'll go get a second opinion. What-whatever you want. We’ll do it. We just can't stop. Do you want to lie down with me?”

Eames nodded again his chest. "Please."

"Okay. We can do that."

"I hate this fucking couch." Eames snorted. “You know what I really want?”

“Tell me. Anything at all.”

“I want my life back. That's impossible. I want to be able to cook in this kitchen. I want to take you to bed— _our_ bed, but—”

“Okay.” The word seemed to tumble out of Arthur’s mouth without thought. His brow rose, as he was clearly surprised by himself. He frowned, siting back a little, nodding slowly then. “You know what? Yeah. This isn't your first week out of the hospital. You're healthy, I'm...sort of...something. But we can do that. We can figure it out.”

Eames leaned back as well to look at Arthur. “No?”

“Yes! _And_ , if _I_ can do this for you? For us? You’re not ending your treatment. Deal?”

“Arthur…” Eames had to rub his forehead and pinch the bridge of his nose when Arthur leapt up, looking around them. “Arthur, stop.”

“No! You’ve been doing too much! For a long time! Think about what you did, Eames. You knew it was dangerous and you knew that you could die, but you protected your team. You and every one of them could be dead right now without that complete selflessness. That's you. That's a big, big part of who you are. Your scars, your prosthetics, they are all undeniable proof of who you are, Eames. You deserve to be happy and to have what you want for once. _And_ , we're not going to fight over it this time.” He went to the closet and pulled their pillows out. He marched with them up the stairs.

Eames' lashes were still wet, but he glared when Arthur came back down. “I want to end my treatment.”

“ _No_ , you want your life back. Well… your life is still your life, Eames. It’s just different, like mine is different. And I think we need to adapt to that instead of… whatever the hell we’ve been doing. You? Will never not be hot to me. In fact, you're probably going to be even more gorgeous the older you get, whether you have legs or no limbs at all!" He hurried down the hall towards the manual wheelchair with determined steps. "Ending your treatment? Worst idea you've ever had, Eames. Talk about ruining every shot you have if you do that! And then there's you leaving your prosthetics behind. I might as well stop eating altogether and have Wendy call me a success! See? Not very good ideas." 

"Arthur—"

Arthur ignored him, shaking his head as he hefted the chair from its spot and planted it at the foot of the stairs. "And living in only  _half_  of our home? No. After everything you've gone through? After all the headaches I gave you for demanding we live here and not...  _anywhere_  near your family?” He stood in front of Eames with his arms crossed. “Well, it… it makes no sense. You ready?”

Eames looked from the chairs to Arthur and back. “For what?  _Are you mad_?” 

“Try.”

“Arthur, no. We’re both exhausted, and you have enough trouble lifting either of these chairs  _without_  me in them.”

Arthur knelt in front of him. “Just once. Just to see what it takes?” He rubbed Eames’ thighs. “I won’t ask again. I promise.”

Eames sighed, tapping the couch cushion in irritation. “Fine. Good luck.”

Arthur deflated, but only for a moment. He stood, scratching his neck. “Okay…”

Eames watched him study the chair. His heart sank for Arthur as they both looked up the tall flight of stairs. “Let’s just make dinner together, Arthur.”

Arthur held up a finger. “Give me a sec… I think I might have this.” He pulled the manual chair open and grabbed the handles, pulling it backwards with him up one stair at a time on its heavy back wheels.

Eames rushed to scoot to the edge of the couch and move to his normal chair, knowing full well that Arthur was about to send himself crashing back down at any minute.

By the time he made it to the railing, Arthur was nearly at the top. Eames sighed, sitting back when Arthur made it and slowly walked back down the stairs. “You done?”

Arthur rolled his wrists and shoulders, looking tired. He circled Eames, leaning down to wrap his arms around Eames’ chest. He kissed his ear, before he plucked it hard.

“Ow!” Eames had to swat at him when he was plucked again and smacked on the top of his head. “What?”

Arthur massaged Eames’ shoulders, looking up the stairs. “You remember all the times when you dragged me with you mall to mall to shop for your parents _and_ every single aunt, uncle, and cousin, and _all_ of James’ wife’s family, every single Christmas? And you know how you made me buy us tickets to the Rugby World Cup for your birthday that one time and for the Super Bowl for _all the rest of those birthdays_? Hey! Do you remember that birthday when I nearly drowned for you?”

Eames’ smile pushed past his defenses. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it, brat. You want to break your neck so you can be in a wheelchair just like your Eames.”

Arthur beamed the moment Eames relented. That smug look of victory had always irritated Eames to no end, but now… he reached for him, too caught up in that smirk to focus on the nerves Arthur hid beneath it, or his own fear. Arthur knelt in front of him, his back facing Eames, ready to catch his arm the moment Eames covered him. Arthur took a deep breath and gripped the first bar on the railing. He stayed low to the steps, crawling up slowly, carefully gripping Eames’ arm the moment he felt Eames slipping.

“You okay? Eames?”

“Yeah. Whoa!” He nearly choked Arthur though when Arthur stood taller, holding onto Eames’ thigh. “You sure about this?”

Arthur hushed him, panting on shaky legs but his arms were strong, holding onto Eames and the railings as he pulled them both higher, closer to the landing. “I’ve got you. You sack of bricks.”

“Piss off," Eames grumbled, blushing. "I’m like… a fucking backpack.”

Arthur stumbled a little, pausing to laugh. “Oh, we’re never going to make it off these damn stairs.”

“We’re moving.”

“We are so fucking moving. To a cottage,” he grunted, moving up higher, surer on his feet. “One story. Flat on the street.”

Eames fought the urge to look behind them, knowing with his aching shoulder, he’d send them toppling backwards. Only, before he knew it, there were no more steps.

They reached the top. “Holy shit, Arthur.”

Arthur stopped, looking up and around them. He took another step, repositioning Eames. “Right? You weigh a lot more up here.”

“Well,” Eames sputtered, still clutching him tight, “put me down!”

He shook his head quickly. “No way.”

“What?”

Arthur switched hands, planting one on the wall as he continued to carry Eames past the chair, straight to their bedroom.

They crashed onto the bed gracelessly, grunting as Eames flattened Arthur into the mattress. He pushed off, lying on his back as Arthur crawled the rest of the way onto the bed. He pulled Eames with him up to the pillows.

They panted, staring up at the ceiling.

Arthur looked over, huffing out a laugh that mirrored Eames’. His grin spread across his face slowly, teasing as his brow rose. “Remember this bed?”

Eames smiled back, still in disbelief. “Oh, I remember this bed.” Everything about the room looked so familiar and yet so new to him. 

“Still don’t think it’s worth it?”

Eames made himself comfortable, his eyelids already growing heavy. The bed cradled him like a cloud, cushioning every sore spot and supporting him in ways that awful couch never could. "You never waste a second to rub it in, do you?"

Arthur rolled over, lying gently on Eames’ side, his hand disappearing under Eames’ wet shirt. "Nope." He kissed Eames' hair.

They were asleep in minutes.

+

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FINAL CHAPTER! T_T
> 
> Enjoy everyone! Comments and critiques greatly appreciated! <33
> 
> *lyrics by FKA Twigs

 

 _In the end, to the beginning,_  
_You're suspending me up with a feeling._  
_From up here, I do surrender_  
_In the trust that up high, lie here together.*_

 

+

 

Eames was still laughing in the taxi when Arthur joined him. “Oh, stop pouting, love!”

Arthur huffed indignantly, ready to take out his phone and tattle on Eames’ new doctor to Wendy. “He took one look at me, Eames.”

“I know! That’s why you can’t be so upset, darling. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of.”

Arthur glared over at him, a little rogue curl dangling in his face. “So how are you going to get upstairs anymore if my frail little gay body can't _possibly_ lift you?”

“He didn’t put it quite like that.”

“I almost miss your other doctor. He was a quack, but at least not _so_ condescending. I can’t believe he asked me how much I weigh! How is that relevant?”

“Oh, fuck him,” Eames laughed, moving over to lean on Arthur’s side. “He’s an old fart anyways. I _do_ like him better, though. He’s got me set up on a great plan.”

“Good for you.”

“Oh, come on, Arthur, be happy!” He grinned at Arthur’s overly forced smile. “I’m going to have blue flames painted on my prosthe—”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Arthur whined to the roof of the car, “Eames, please don’t!” His pout deepened. “Eames, I thought you were kidding before.”

“You don’t think blue flames are sexy? Or skulls with mohawks _smoldering_ in those blue flames. No?” He snickered at Arthur’s grimace. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

“I don’t trust you anymore.”

“ _Babe_.”

Arthur glanced over again. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “I _am_ happy that you had a good day. I was beginning to miss those, but the last week’s been really great for you.”

“One of many more to come, I reckon. Wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Arthur tucked the loose curl pack in place through the driver’s mirror, blushing. “Yeah, well be sure to tell that to your lovely parents when you call this evening. Get that in writing too, for good measure. We can hang it on a plaque so when your brother comes to visit again, I can take it off the wall and shove it up his—” Arthur sighed again, genuinely smiling as Eames now glared. “So what’s for dinner? I’m thinking tufu.”

Eames frowned. "Yeah?"

"I'm kidding," Arthur teased, humorlessly. 

Eames’ shoulders sank. He eyed Arthur with suspicion. “Boy, you really are upset about those blue flames, aren’t you?”

+

Eames seemed to enjoy watching Arthur ‘cook,’ which only seemed to make Arthur burn meals more often than not.

“Easy with the fork, darling,” he coached, in his chair beside Arthur at the stove, his back straight to peer over the pan at a safe distance. “If you poke it, you could burn yourself.”

“I’ve already burned myself five times stirring the rice, so this can’t be too bad.” Still, he frowned in concentration, carefully flipping the chicken over.

Eames seemed to enjoy watching Arthur doing a lot of things, Arthur had noticed. There wasn’t a moment when Arthur glanced at him and didn’t meet that stare. His ears had to be permanently red by now, his heart constantly fluttering.

What exactly Eames saw, Arthur wasn’t sure, but looking at him made Eames happy without steering into shaky territory.

“Arthur?”

“Hm? Oh!” He made sure to turn off the burners before plating their food and getting them settled at the table.

Their eyes met again, as they ate. “Baby, this is your best.”

Arthur smiled, more so at the pride radiating off of Eames. Like this, Eames was the most beautiful. Content, healthy, and so happy with Arthur that it didn’t seem real sometimes.

He wanted to reach across the table and kiss him. He picked up his fork instead.

There was still a space between them, some invisible barrier that followed them up the stairs and into bed every night and back down in the morning. By tomorrow the new handle bars and supports would be installed into their upstairs bathroom. Gone were the days yet again when Eames would need Arthur’s help to dress and undress or move around in the space.

Not like Eames had really gotten his hand on Arthur’s clothes in a long time anyways. He didn’t need the new doctor telling him that Eames needed time for that, not with the yellow, fading bruise on his wrist.

It didn’t matter. Arthur wasn’t complaining and neither was Eames. They shared each other in enough things. Sex could and would wait.

+

Eames parked himself beside Arthur where he stood washing the dishes after their supper. That wild curl was back in Arthur's face, his lips parted as he scrubbed a particularly difficult pan. He set the phone on the countertop and stretched in his chair, distracting himself from memories of bending Arthur over this very surface. “Mum said hello. Everyone’s doing alright on their end.”

“That’s good.”

Arthur was more quiet than usual and Eames couldn’t figure out why. If he didn’t ask outright, Arthur would never tell him.

“Sleepy, that’s all,” was Arthur’s only reply, but it was lie. If Eames were any other man, he might have missed the look in Arthur’s eyes.

Eames reached out for him, feeling the knitted little patterns on Arthur’s shirt. He traced the smooth leather belt, and spread his hand out as he touched the back of Arthur’s thigh, the soft trousers tickling his palm. 

He looked up, a little breathless when he caught Arthur’s attention. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop. “Take my bath with me.”

Arthur paused, his brow rising as he looked at him. “You… sure? I’m…”

“Yeah,” he breathed, already knowing that it wouldn't be the kind of baths they used to share, but damn it if he didn't miss Arthur and need to be with him more than he cared about his own insecurities.

“Okay.” Arthur answered at last, looking visibly nervous at first, but he nodded, a smile forming.

 

Arthur was getting better at carrying Eames up and down the staircase everyday it seemed. He took his time up, at a slow pace still, but there was no need to grip the railing after days and days of following their new routine. Eames was sliding into his chair upstairs in no time, watching Arthur walk past him.

Arthur was placing a pile of fresh sleeping clothes for them on the sink when Eames caught up to him in the bathroom.

“This is different,” Arthur said, standing awkwardly in the space in his undershirt and briefs, his lean legs pale under the bright light.

Eames was already halfway out of his shirt when he looked up to see Arthur worrying a towel in his hands. “Yeah.” He handed Arthur his shirt, who then held it to his chest the way he always did, so unconscious of the action that he frowned as Eames continued to grin at him with his own nervousness. “But…”

He couldn’t finish. Arthur wasn’t going to budge if Eames didn’t, so he cleared his throat and let Arthur help him fully undress.

He was eased into the water and sighed. Arthur’s baths were always perfect. Perfect temperature, perfect level, and the hands that cupped water to pour over his aching back and shoulders. He opened his eyes after another relaxing breath, peeking up at Arthur. “You changed your mind?”

“No! I… just…” Arthur surprised him, reaching for his face and kissing him so wildly, he would have tumbled into the water on his own if Eames hadn’t dragged him in himself.

Arthur moaned, cracked and high-pitched with a desperate edge, his shirt and briefs soaked and clinging to him. Ever mindful, he kept his weight supported on his hands, bracing them on either side of Eames, but his hardness strained against those briefs, colliding with Eames’ soft cock. He gripped the back of Arthur’s shirt as Arthur ground his hips and rocked against him.

That intensity, as if Arthur had been drugged or possessed, had Eames startlingly hard under him and fast. They moaned into each other’s mouths before lips and hands wandered. Arthur sucked a bruise deep into Eames’ neck as Eames shoved down the back of Arthur’s briefs and gripped his ass, kneading it hard, his cock leaking in the water as he massaged flesh he hadn’t touched in far too long.

Arthur was panting so loudly in his ears, but his own chest was rising and falling rapidly, unable to keep up with their hard pace. He yanked on the front of Arthur’s briefs and caught his length, tugging it quickly.

“Eames, fuck!” Arthur buried his face in Eames’ neck as he nearly screamed. He was coming in seconds, his release swirling and spreading in the water.

Arthur pressed his forehead to Eames’ chest, still shaking as he started to come back down little by little. “Oh my god.” He looked up, dazed and laughing breathlessly with Eames.

“Well! That’s… wow, quick."

Arthur rolled his eyes, still smiling. "Fuck you, Eames."

"Hello to you too, Arthur.” Eames laughed back, humming when Arthur kissed him again, still hungry for him.

Arthur panted, gazing at Eames for a moment as Eames stroked his cheek and combed his wet hand through his hair. Without warning he ducked his head under the water, taking Eames into his mouth and bobbed.

Eames’ back arched, his head falling back on the tub’s rim. “Arthur…” He raked Arthur’s hair underwater, trying his best to buck his hips with no leverage. He watched Arthur dig his nails in his thighs, his ass up and bare with his briefs a mess in the water. The back of his shirt was still dry, but little else was as he rose for air for a heartbeat, kissed Eames deeply again and plunged back to twist and suck Eames down.

His hand rose from the water to rake up Eames’ stomach and chest. Eames grabbed it quickly, holding it tight as the unimaginable happened. Arthur arched his back deeper. The view of his narrow hips and the curve of his ass and spread legs, sent Eames into a release just as powerful as his had been. In spite of the medication, in spite of so many ‘no’s’ and ‘maybe’s’ from his doctor, he was alive under Arthur and roaring, catching Arthur’s hair in his grip then, shuddering through it as Arthur held his hips firm.

Arthur gasped for air, raking back his soak hair as he sat back on his legs. Seemingly unsure of where to touch Eames now, he rubbed more water from his face, his cheeks pink and his ears red, lips puffy and delicious when Eames grabbed the front of that t-shirt and pulled him forward for another kiss.

 

It was unstoppable. Once their lips touched, all else faded away. Only the need to reconnect and maintain the fire they’d sparked remained foremost in their minds.

They crashed down on the bed, both of them still soaked and still reaching for each other’s lips long after their bath was over.

It was scary, at first, trying to maneuver around his limitations, but damn if Arthur wasn’t ready as always to figure it out.

“Eames…”

He’d pushed Eames down on the pillows and straddled his face, moaning and clutching the headboard as Eames’ tongue tickled his softened rim, but with a shyness that nearly embarrassed Eames. He couldn’t tackle Arthur down and ravish him like the old days, but as they fell into a whole new dance, Eames knew the specifics didn’t matter anymore. So long as he was here, so long as Arthur wanted him, _needed_ him, and could slide his perfect ass down on his throbbing cock and ride him.

He smacked Arthur’s ass hard and gripped his hip, bruising it as his back arched. Arthur’s hand covered his as he took more and more of Eames inside. He looked back at Eames over his shoulder, rolling his hips and grinding, putting on a show for Eames the way he always did.

“I fucking missed this,” he panted to Eames, hoarse. “I fucking missed you so much, Eames.”

“Arthur,” Eames groaned, rubbing his hand up his spine, leaking strings and ropes of precome into that slick, too, too tight ass, “baby, let me see you.”

Arthur was quick to comply, turning around and resettled, his curling hair dripping around them. “Like this?”

“Yes, baby. Just like this.” He touched Arthur with a greedy hand, pinching his nipples and gripping his arm to make Arthur grind even harder.

Arthur took Eames’ hand and sucked on his fingers, his eyes rolling. “God, you feel so good, Eames.” He bounced in his lap faster, moaning. “God, do you remember when you beat up Robert Fischer and his friends to steal me?”

“Yeah,” Eames panted. ”Was exciting, wasn’t it?”

“Fuck yes! You’re so fucking hot, Eames. So fucking ferocious and brutal and  _big_.”

That word traveled through Eames, taking hold. He nearly growled as he gripped Arthur's hip, biting his lip. “Yeah? You still love big men, do you?”

“Mhm!” He licked his lips, positively in heaven when Eames’ hand on his hip squeezed. He leaned down and devoured Eames' lips, panting against them before he sat up again and rocked his hips in a quick circle. “Really, really big ones.”

Eames’ back arched as he groaned. “God!” His back was getting sore, his abdomen aching, the way he'd felt the first time Arthur had rode his dick like this, when his knuckles were still bruising from beating Robert, when his ribs screamed in agony under Arthur’s rabid lust. Eames reveled in it, burning in Arthur’s scorching fire.

“Are you my big man, Eames?”

That thought brought Eames out of the fog. “Oh, fuck, Arthur, don’t do that to me, you evil boy.” His cheeks flushed as he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look up at Arthur without coming.

Mercilessly as ever, Arthur egged him on, nonetheless. “You’re still my big, strong man, Mr. Eames? Tell me. Don't make me go out and find one.”

“I am!” Eames wasn’t big at all. He was skinny, frail almost, and hurting, but inside he felt like his old self—Better, even. His touch still had the power to make Arthur shiver and moan, but that reach felt so much deeper now, binding them together. It was indescribable to him and so clear.

“You gonna put a claim on me? Keep me in this bed until you’ve wrecked me for good. Yeah?”

They were more than just flesh and bone. So much more. “Fuck, yeah, Arthur! Jesus Christ!”

“Look at us, Eames,” Arthur was purring, propping himself back with a hand between Eames’ thighs, his other lifting and cupping his balls so Eames could see him bobbing on his thick cock. “I fucking missed this so much.”

The light in the ceiling cast Arthur in the faintest shadows; under his nipples, under his navel, shadows that had never been there before. Eames rubbed his hand over Arthur’s sweaty chest and over his stomach, feeling the beginnings of soft, supple flesh there. It startled him that he’d never noticed how skinny Arthur was until now that he was getting himself healthy. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

Arthur smiled, his eyes closing as his head fell back. "Say it again for me. Please?"

He did, his touch sweeping over Arthur's skin with every word of praise. “My gorgeous boy. My own little porn starlet,” Eames teased, his voice graveled.

Arthur laughed, grinding his ass against Eames’ hips. “See? Told you I’d do good.”

“Perfect!”

Arthur stroked his cock rapidly, making himself breathless as he rocked his hips in harder circles, aiming Eames’ cock for his prostate. “Speak…for…yourself… Fuck!” He came hard, cursing, grabbing Eames’ hand and holding it as his back bowed forward, body squeezing in spasm as he covered him, panting into his neck. “Eames!”

He kept Eames’ hand in his as he rode out every single wave. He kissed that hand before he rolled off and swallowed Eames down, deep enough to choke himself, his wet eyes locked on Eames’.

Eames shook his hand loose and gripped Arthur’s hair, earning a hungry whine. His back was screaming now, but pleasure ripped through him. “Arthur,” he groaned, his voice rising as Arthur swallowed around his head one time too many, his hand pressing down on Eames’ balls. Eames couldn’t breath as his orgasm barreled through, crushing him flat. It burned in his chest, his throat and down his spine, through every working nerve he possessed. 

Arthur’s hold on his shaft squeezed it as he pumped up every trace of release that he could, sucking it all down.

In dramatic fashion, Arthur flopped down on the bed beside Eames, licking his lips. “Well!”

“Yeah?”

“That was certainly a workout, doing all the labor myself.”

Eames snorted, shaking his head as he reached over to trail Arthur’s lips and jaw. “At least,” he teased back, his voice as warm and quiet, as  _tender_  as Arthur’s was, “your pelvis is still in tact, love. Pretty sure I’m sand after your wild ride.”

Arthur grinned under those exploring fingers. It was devilish. And as a wicked laugh bubble up and out of him, it seemed to carry away the undercurrent of fear and fretting that had so plagued Arthur since the beginning, since that day in the hospital, since returning home. Eames’ boy was back. He’d missed him.

“Yeah,” Arthur drawled, stretching, “but you can take it. Right?”

Eames hummed, feeling like himself again, too. “Sure can.”

+

Eames sat in the passenger seat of Arthur’s parked new car, patting his thigh. He’d been sitting in this car for ten minutes, watching birds fly by, watching  _other_  cars drive past in the rearview mirror.

He sighed. He couldn’t believe it. He was going to be late for his appointment and there was nothing he could do about it.

He waited for five more minutes.

“ _Arthur_ —”

“Stop it, Eames! Just let me do this!”

Eames carefully patted Arthur shoulder and rubbed his arm. “Darling, stop clutching the wheel before you break it—”

“I’m just nervous, okay?”

“Arthur—”

“I’ve never driven you to an appointment—”

“Just—”

“—and this appointment is  _huge_! What if we get into a wreck and you can’t make it? What if we die?—”

“— _relax_ , baby,” Eames soothed. “What did your driving instructor tell you?”

Arthur scowled at the wheel. “That I’m a very safe driver.”

“Exactly, so… Put the key in the ignition… Good. Now, let’s go get my new legs, yeah?” He couldn’t help but smile when Arthur’s cheeks dimpled with his own. “Good. That’s my baby.”

Arthur rubbed the steering wheel for a moment before glancing over. “You’ll be walking again in no time. I just know it.”

“I think so too.”

Arthur returned his smile, putting the car in reverse. He crept backwards carefully. “I’m going to miss being taller than you.”

Eames chuckled, leaning over to kiss Arthur’s shoulder once they were on the road. “We make a pretty decent team, huh?”

Arthur smirked, his ears turning red. “Yeah. We do.”

+

++

+

 

 **Epilogue**  

+

++

 

Arthur clutched the steering wheel, parked on the street in front of James’ house, far away from the line of cars and the people headed to the backyard with plates of food, gifts, and balloons.

He was terrified, but not of them, not this time. He looked over at Eames. “Can we go home?”

“No, silly boy!”

“Eames, if James—”

“Then I’ll sock him for you! I’m nervous too.”

Arthur rubbed the wheel and put on a determined face. “Okay. You’re _sure_ your parents aren’t going to have heart attacks? You know I’ll be blamed for it, for springing this on them.”

Eames chuckled, patting his knees. He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door.

Arthur hurried around. He leaned on the doorframe, at the ready.

With care, Eames turned himself and lifted one leg, then the other, planting his feet firmly on the ground. He reached out for Arthur, letting him pull him to standing.

He took a deep breath, looking around them, as Arthur made sure Eames had his balance. Eames wrapped his arm over Arthur’s shoulders as Arthur held his waist, at his side and took the first few steps.

“You okay?”

“James’ never been one for proper lawn upkeep. This is different from the PT floor.”

Arthur paused. “Should I get the chair?”

“Not in front of my mum and dad,” Eames teased, and kissed Arthur’s frown. “I’m fine, babe.”

Arthur made sure to avoid any mole holes, getting more nervous with every step they took, cutting around the house to sneak up the side towards the family.

Eames’ parents’ backs were turned, hovering near James and critiquing his grilling, when they reached the wooden fence.

Arthur was shocked to see tears in Eames’ eyes. He kissed his cheek, rubbing his back. He fixed the knot in Eames' sleeve and moved behind him, holding his shirt.

Eames limped a little, still finding strength in his right leg, but he was determined, opening the gate and taking another uneven step forward. “Mum?”

His parents turned, their faces blank with disbelief only for them to rush forward. His mother wept. “George!”

James hung back, still stunned. “Holy shit!”

Arthur moved back instinctually, letting Eames’ parents take either side of Eames, supporting him.

His father nearly howled as they showered Eames’ face with kisses. “Look at you, boy! Oh my goodness gracious!”

Arthur’s heart stopped when James nearly tackled Eames in a hug, but he was quick to keep a hold of his brother, yelling for the rest of the family to come and take a look of their George. He wiped his eyes, smiling softly and let them help Eames into the yard to the nearest chair. Eames looked amazing to him, glowing in the sun and so surrounded by love.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do at first until he heard Eames call for him.

Eames had to duck through his aunts and sister-in-law to see him. “Baby? Come here and meet our new niece!”

Arthur hurried to him, grateful for the space he was given as he moved past the others. He sat down stiffly, frowning at the baby in a frilly pink dress thrust into his lap by James’ wife.

Eames and his family cooed, his face positively smug as he reached for the baby without needing Arthur to ask to take her. He was grateful for the beer he was handed in exchange for the baby, even if he hated beer.

Eames smiled and nearly giggled as they watched his niece gum at the knot on his opposite sleeve. “Thank God your wife is gorgeous, James, or else this girl would be the most _hideous_ thing on Earth.”

James shook his head, standing closest to his brother. “Yeah, yeah. Careful, Georgie, you might be a hotshot with those RoboCop legs, but I’m still prettier than you. Don’t forget that.”

Arthur touched the baby’s little socked foot, feeling the frills. He pitied her for having to sit in a ball of itchy lace.

James’ wife beamed. “You fancy having one someday with Georgie, Arthur?”

He took his hand away quickly, crossing his legs. “Oh no.”

James snorted. “George has enough trouble taking care of the two of them,” he teased.

Arthur tried to smile and laugh too with Eames’ family, ready to leave now.

“ _No_ ,” Eames cut in. “Hold on, James, I think you’ve got that backwards.” He paused to hand the whining baby back to James’ wife. “I’d still be rolling around without Arthur. You have no clue how well he’s taken care of me.”

In the silence that followed, Eames took up his beer and clinked it to Arthur’s, raising it in a toast. He gazed at Arthur with a smile and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, baby, for being my guy.”

Arthur wanted to disappear under the table, sputtering. “O-okay.”

Eames’ mum cleared her throat. To Arthur’s surprise, she raised her glass of water too, followed by James’ wife.

Amber smiled at him, gently rocking the baby on her hip as the breeze ruffled her sundress and red curls. “To Arthur,” she said softly, “who is thankfully just as, if not more, stubborn than Georgie. Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur held up his hands, shaking his head. “Oh no, I—Eames is much, much…” He was stunned to silence when Eames’ father patted his shoulder.

James smiled down at him, nodding slowly.

He looked to Eames, whose eyes were wetting again, a big grin plastered on his face before he leaned over to kiss Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur blushed, moving a little closer to him.

“ _Although_ ,” Eames hurried to say, “I _will_ add that you should have let me put blue flames on my legs, Arthur.”

His mother frowned, looking appalled. “Good heaven, George! That would look awful! Absolutely out of the question.”

Arthur sighed in relief, knowing that at last, he finally was home. 

++

+

 

**End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sad to see this come to an end! However, I couldn't be more happy with this project. 
> 
> Special thanks to tamat9 and velificantes for being the best help and support anyone could ever ask for! Could not have done this without you! <3 <3 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stuck by and subscribed, bookmarked, and left lovely kudos and comments all the way through, even over the span of TWO whole years! @_@ 
> 
> Be sure to check out my AO3 page and the blog at grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com if you're interested in any current, past, and future projects!


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